


How to Lose a Guy in 10-days

by Leszre



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dialogue Heavy, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:13:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 44,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23792923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leszre/pseuds/Leszre
Summary: [ NOTICE ] General Housecleaning continues!; uhrmm... how have you guys been following this AU with this many mistakes?? I'm...overwhelminglyspeechless and grateful of your open-minded kindhearts. *hat tip*.[ Outline ]As the "How to" (subject-matter expert) advice columnist inComposure, Elio Perlman, is bored and wishes he could write about more serious topics he is genuinely concerned with. After Elio's best friend Marzia experiences yet another break-up, Elio is inspired to write a new article titled "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.” His editor, Chiara, loves it, and Elio goes off to find a man he can use for the experiment. Enter advertising executive Oliver Barry, is striving for a pitch to advertise a new diamond campaign. When his boss questions Oliver's knowledge about romance, Oliver bets he could make anyone fall in love with him if he wanted to. His boss accepts the bet and confirms that if he can achieve this feat before the upcoming company ball, in just 10 days, he will allow Oliver to head the advertising for the new diamond company. When Elio and Oliver meet by chance at the bar Marzia is working, their plans backfire.
Relationships: Oliver & Elio Perlman, Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 74
Kudos: 67





	1. Thursday (D-11)

**Author's Note:**

> As with my other fic, this might not be your thing as I tend to spew out unusual interpretations. Even if you don’t like mine, please keep being a valuable fanfam member of CMBYN in AO3. Each and every one of you are important in this fanfamdom world and its continued existence. Grazie!  
> .  
> –The major story arc will follow the original movie’s plot. However, as this was a very hetero-rom-com with lots of plot holes, do please wish me luck on CMBYN-ing it with proper flare.  
> –Update schedule: Weekly  
> –POV shifts are noted as within-the-chapter sub-headings.  
> .  
> 

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the weird tug-of-war: Elio is given a mandate/deadline to _lose_ a guy while Oliver bets to _make_ "anyone" fall for him.

**Chapter One. Thursday (D-11): Puffy Eyes and a Mandate**

**Elio**

/ “The guy bailed again,”/ Marzia groans over the phone.

Her voice sounds like she has been crying again. Bawling, probably. Her nose red pink, a pile of face tissue crumbled and soaked in her tears and snot. Marzia broke up again. She went out on a Grinder date on Sunday night after three months of flirting and countless exchanges of risqué pictures. She cried during sex, Marzia told me, confessed that she loves him. No, not the elegant kind, but the all out emotional sob. Well, with among other things. And the guy, who has been so forward on sending her dick pics no matter the time of the day, stopped responding to her texts. For two straight days, I have been consoling her.

“It’s Thursday…,” I groan, brushing my fingers through my hair, “besides, it’s not your responsibility to make sure the piano is manned while you are at the bar.”

It’s the thing we do. Ever since my parents’ divorce on my first term of _Conservatoire de Paris_ , (empty nest syndrome, people said) my so-called musical talent only comes out whenever Marzia is in a tough spot. I took a year off, then followed Marzia to New York. I signed up for a local college and ended up getting into NYU. The journalism. Marzia raised her eyebrows when I unexpectedly threw myself at writing. Yeah, the expression definitely fit the bill; _threw_ myself _at_ writing. Although we never explicitly spoke of my sudden turn of interest, she knew. Of course, she always knows. Because, quite frankly, I was pursuing something other than the writing or the degree itself. There was a professor I deeply smitten with. He was happily married and… I never found a courage to express my feelings to him. Instead, I kept signing up for classes he was teaching. One always works so hard when the love is unrequited. The ironic thing was that I was really good at writing, regardless of topic. I reckon being a professor’s son and having only books and music to entertain myself during my youth had something to do with it.

Now I work for a magazine called _Composure_. I figured I can start easy with the publishing entity that was so willing to give me incentives for being gay. Of course, it was _he_ who suggested that the company was interested in hiring me.

“Elio––, staff meeting in five,” a colleague of mine, Andie, with her California tan and accent, bejeweled nails says at the back of my head.

I turn my head, covering the mic of my Bluetooth set, and mouth, “thanks.”

Andie mirrors and replies, ‘sorry,’ inaudibly–though her face is clearly saying she is not. All the while, I hear Marzia sniffle and blowing her nose.

/ “You gotta save me…, Elio, you know by having you at the piano will help me ground myself.” / Marzia says with the pouty tone.

I can only sigh.

/ “Besides, you know Thursday is a classics night. So….” /

I stare at the screen, of the piece I was writing about the Middle East and the Oil Company. It’s been three years I’ve been working here. And the past six moths or so, I wrote about everything but the things that mattered as an advice columnist. Everything else but the topics that are close to my heart.

A zinging chill sigh escapes through my nose.

Blink.

Blink.

 _If I save this, I will be up all night just to delete it again,_ it’s funny how the voice in my head knows better all the time.

So I move the mouse to click the [X] mark on the screen.

/ “stop sighing. You know it makes me feel worse,” / Marzia’s voice in her pout is never going to end.

I fill my lungs and…

“What time?”

*

**Chiara’s Office, Composure, New York | Elio**

About a half flight of stairs, Chiara’s office is encapsulated in ceiling-to-floor sound proof glass walls. Whenever she’d need some privacy, it turns frost white. Upon her ascension (?) to being the chief editor, she revolutionized how _Composure_ is being run. Chiara understood early on how the explosion of social media would play a key role in not only the printed magazine sale but also the website. I walk in with my company issued foldable tablet.

At a glance, her office resembles more like a high-end massage salon. On the high-pile shaggy area rugs, several designer furniture maker’s bean bags and mountains of pillows and cushions lay. Silk, embroidered, micro-fleece. Especially for non-artistic eyes, all these may appear to lack some order. But the color scheme and palette are carefully chosen each season. Chiara hired a specific care-team to get her office’s interior items to be washed and cared-for, based on her schedule.

“Good morning, ladies,” says Chiara walks around from her desk.

“Good morning,” replies everyone, as I find my seat behind Andie, who is sitting on the floor: front–n-center, right across from where Chiara normally sits.

Chiara is wearing Cheongsam, Chinese traditional dress, with matching make-up. Her eyes are colored so meticulously to look as though she has mono-lids; as her lips too – they are only painted in the center. The rest is in her skin color of her face with the special made-only-for-you foundation.

“Okay, family, shoes off,” says Chiara, “And breathe.”

Everyone closes their eyes and fills their lungs. Of course, I keep my eyes down.

“...Out–,” Chiara guides, as she too is breathing out slowly, “okay, before we begin, on the other side of the office, we are hosting a visitor from Warner Advertising. Everyone, Vimini,” Chiara deftly unfurls her forearm to her fingers, “Vimini, Everyone.”

“Hi~~, Vimini,” greets everyone.

“Now, Lori, let's start with you,” Chiara designates her with a ‘let’s get down to business’ expression on her face.

Lori, who is sitting on Chiara’s left goes and reports about another surge of fungal infection in the downtown New York nail salons. In her lighthearted tone, she grimaces and frowns about how devastating those incidents have been to the residents and patrons of those shops.

“I heard the city health officials will be doing inspection. Depending on the result, those three salons might close permanently.”

“Marvelous” chimes Chiara, in Middle G, “what's next for 'How to,’ Elio?”

“Well, I've been working on something that's kind of different. It's..., It's about how generation Z are having trouble divorcing themselves from the social media. Although majority of them know the danger and the toxicity––”

Two on my right, Vera and Bart, comment out loud, “oh, my god, yes, it’s like good girls being attracted to bad bad guys, right?” “You just can’t help it, though we all know they are not good for you– their abs, the way they look at you and make you feel–.”

I temper my sigh (and dismay) and continue, “…more than 75 percent of those who attempt to quit ends up going back to using the platform such as Instagram and twitter while there are alternatives available such as Mas...”

“No. Elio,” Chiara raises her open palm, right at her shoulder level with a barely-there pointed look, “you work at Composure Magazine. We are––”

Like being led by the previous year’s beauty pageant queen, everyone says in unison the following, in an airy and flamboyant way;

“fashion, trends, diets, cosmetic surgeries, salacious gossip.”

Chiara breathes in through her nose so proudly with a Mona Lisa-like smile. And she pauses, before she says, with a meaning blink, “that's _Composure_.”

“Okay, but...,” I try to interject my objection.

“Look, Elio, okay–,” this time she tempers her emotion, lightly clicking her tongue, “the column is relatively new. When you turn it into a must-read, in other words, drawing a continuous eyeball-time of 100K constantly, then you can write about whatever you want. Until then, you can write about whatever I want. Understood?”

Vera jumps in, as if she has a brilliant idea to help me out of the situation of being passive aggressively scolded by Chiara in front of everyone, "didn’t your friend just get dumped again?”

Before I get a chance to open my mouth, 

“Is she the one introduces herself as a next DA?” another voice chimes in from Vera’s right.

Now the whole room is talking about Marzia, a couple of them flipping their thumps on their smart devices to confirm what (and of whom) Vera has just said. (Oh, dear god–) don’t tell me she posted that, too.

“Oh, no, whoever-Elio's best friend, what a hellish ordeal for her. Andie, write about it,” just like that, Chiara decides. And Andie goes, “alrighty~, I can start by setting up an interview. Elio, did you say she works at the––.”

“No, no, no, Chiara, with all due respect, Andie has no business mucking around in my best friend's personal life, and I can't... I can't let her.”

“Why not?” Chiara counters with her typical ‘convince me’ expression.

“Because it’s one thing for her to use her social media to talk about her life––.”

“So, you think Andie not being a close friend will cause the alienation from the readers?”

“No, that’s not…”

Chiara looks at me with ‘I am not at all convinced,’ then as if she has a brilliant idea, Chiara goes, “ahhh–, why don’t you write it? ‘How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days.’ Yes,” and she muses herself, so self-importantly, “as you said, she is your best friend and you will be able to list out the mistakes most nice-and-smart girls make while dating. Hah! The article will practically write itself. You see? this is why I am here for _ALL_ of you,” and she makes ‘follow my lead and learn things well’-look and gazes throughout-n-around her office, making eye contacts, “Yes. Go. Bart, what's new in the shoe world?”

“Wait, wait, Chiara,” I stammer, not even thinking about rebutting her logic, “I'm sorry. Why ten days?”

“Five days is too short, and we go to press in 11. Yes? Okay, what we found out is men are attracted to purple shoes. Now, I love...”

*

**Oliver**

The fact that I am sitting here while I should be at Thayer’s garage for poker night is frustrating. But it's for the good of the whole team so…

The air here is quite warm or is it just my imagination?! I grimace as I undo two buttons on my $200 Armani dress shirt. This afternoon, I had to barge in to Phillip’s office and worked my golden boy charm to get his evening schedule off of his secretary since I wasn’t invited to DeLauer Diamonds pitch. The rumor has it that once the DeLauer (the company that dominates the world diamond market) is looking for a new ad agency, Warren jumped on the offer without speaking to any of his exec-s. As far as I can recall, Warren has always wanted a big account like the DeLauers under the company name. So it was quite understandable that he moved on it aggressively. And in haste, Warren gave it to the Judys, Spears and Green (two hot, leggy chicks in Warren Advertising). Not a fair move from where I stand. And all I can think is the undeniable fact that if l represent the DeLauers, l basically represent the entire industry.

“Ah~! Oliver, how good of you to join my table before I even arrive––,” Phillip, my boss at the Warner Advertising says with his usual amused tone.

I get up off my seat like a well-mannered gentleman.

“Does he do this often?” a familiar voice rings behind him.

“Good, god! Vimini.”

“Hi, Oliver, it’s been a while,” says the young woman.

I lean over to my dominant foot with open arms; can’t hold back my smiles. I haven’t seen her… what?... since her 9th grade.

Vimini is Philip’s first wife’s daughter. Maria, a former super model turned modeling agency guru, lives in Milan. While she was living with Philip, I taught her how to speak Italian. I bet she speaks better than I am.

“When did you get back?”

Philip groans as he sits down, “two weeks ago.”

“Are you here for a visit? Or for good?” I ask her after two light pecks on her cheek.

“Why? so you could get me into trouble?” Vimini grins with an all knowing smile, sitting at the chair I pull out for her.

“Philip, why didn’t you tell me she was coming? I’d have her in my art department in a heartbeat,” I ask him as I sit myself next to her.

Philip just shrugs.

“That’s why I didn’t tell him or you,” Vimini says pointedly, though she gives me a soft smile.

“Are you still modeling then?”

“No––,” Philip begins, “she is contemplating on becoming a journalist.”

“Oh~? What about your oil painting or photography?”

“I’m still doing them. I just want to experience the things I’m interested in before I _hunker down_ for one career,” Vimini remarks flipping the menu, without looking up at me or Philip.

When Vimini asks what entrée is good here, I scratch the back of my head.

“So, Dad wasn’t kidding, you just came to talk to him?”

“Pretty much,” I chuckle.

“(Still ballsy),” Vimini states, trying to see if there's anything good to pick out from the appetizer menu.

“The diamond industry has always targeted men,” I begin, taking out the champagne from the elaborate ice bucket next to the table, “sending the message that the woman needs the man to buy her the rock. As people say, a diamond is forever,” I pour Vimini’s first.

“Why does it sound like you have some trepidation about that common belief?” Vimini says with keen curiosity, “if diamonds are everywhere, which means they're not rare, the gems lose their status. Even the lab grown diamonds. Why do people buy jewelry when they can buy other similar or more precious valuable? Status, Oliver,” she gives me a look as if she is saying, ‘even I know the difference,' then, “ _Status_ is the reason to buy them in the first place.”

“Well said,” Phillip takes a sip from his flute, “you basically summed up the two-hour meeting I had this afternoon.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to work in my team?” I chuckle casually, “I tell you, you are natural.”

She asks me for recommendation of entrée, again; it's the thing we do. And I tell her I haven’t a clue.

“So, Oliver, you think you can do a better job on instilling other catchy slogan than what is currently believed by many?”

Vimini flips back to the appetizer section and I point out the platter that has little bit of everything.

“Yes, indeed, I am. If a diamond is forever, why not focus on the reason _why_ the diamond _became_ the symbol of such infinite term?”

Vimini huffs as she is very familiar with my love life. A bit more than any young teenager should have.

“Love is love is love is love, Philip, as I said _lust_ can be sated with chocolates and champagne. But, _Love_ ,” I pause, “Love needs something more permanent. A symbol, a representation. Something sparkly, the substance that could have been a graphite withstood the enormous amount of pressure to be one of the strongest material on earth. As this brilliant young woman has astutely pointed out.”

“Very cocky, Oliver,” Vimini says, rolling her eyes, “doesn’t anyone tell you, you are full of yourself?”

“Nuh,” I shake my head a little with a grin, “not cocky, Confident.”

I reach down and give a little pinch on the side of her knee. Something that we used to do when she was living with Warren, a few years ago. Vimini giggles like a school girl. I love how she smiles. Her adolescent innocence.

"l'd like to see you prove that," Phillip says leaning back a little.

"You would?" I ask, switching my crossed legs.

"The agency's co-hosting a party for the DeLauers at the Astor Museum. The party's a week from Sunday. Do you think you could make a person fall in love with you by then?”

"Ten days?" That is quite a challenge.

“Ooo–,” Vimini muses, “Dad, you know how Oliver is with bets.”

Phillip dips his chin just a little with a knowing look, “anyone, anywhere, anytime?”

“Any single, available, not mentally disturbed, _clinically_ , –yes,” I clarify.

“Well, Vimini–,” Philip crosses his legs and looks at his daughter.

Vimini huffs first before she swivels in her seat to scan the area. And once her sight lands on someone, her head tilts. Only slightly. Something about whoever must have intrigued her. I brace myself internally.

“Even the diamond in the rough?” Vimini asks with a mischievous grin.

Oh, I know that smile. I squint a little to discern what she is up to, before I turn my head to see where her line of sight landed. Hmm–, I don't see who she might have seen.

“Mhm hmm,” I answer her with a light nod.

Her face expression says, ‘okay, then,’ and she lifts her hand and leans toward me. And my eyes follow where she is pointing.

“Him,” Vimini says in a firm definitive tone.

I narrow my eyes a little. A mixture of curiosity and uncertainty.

“Him?” I repeat her word back to make sure I am seeing the same person.

“Yes, the pianist.”

“The pianist,” I know I am repeating her words.

“Why~, Mister Oliver, too much? You said anyone.”

I take in an audible breath, slowly, gazing into her interest-peaked yet daring eyes.

“Alright, done.”

“Okay, then,” Philip says in a jolly tone.

“I need your word that if I win this bet, I get to pitch DeLauers,” I place both my elbows on the table and look right into Phillip’s face.

“It’s a promise,” replies Phillip with a light nod.

“Well, excuse me, a lady and a gentleman,” I say it as I kiss the back of Vimini’s hand, “I have a guy I must make 'fall in love' with me.”

Vimini chuckles under her breath, shaking her head in disbelief.

*

**Evening, Same Day | Elio**

The term _Classics_ here in this bar can mean different things on different day. Having never covered a sudden Thursday spot, I came prepared. Well, one has to. Checking up on the recent hit movies and recent music chart. I started slow with mellow selection. Surprisingly, there was no specific requests. It was quite different from weekends.

Marzia is back in the kitchen while the other one is busy flirting with a woman in leopard print tube dress. I peer my head around a little to see if I can catch her before I call it a night. But…

_Ayerr, I’ll just text her._

I fish my phone out keeping my head down to make sure I don’t get any unwanted attention from folks. Thumbing away on the surface to Marzia that I’m leaving to hook a guy, that I need to get pretty-up if I’m going to hit the club tonight. Uggh––, it’s weeknight.

“Oof–,” I thought I was careful.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t…,” when I look up I am greeted with two pale blue eyes. Ice grey-ish sky blue.

A blond hair guy, tall as an oak tree is beaming down with a smile, offering me an apology for bumping into me. Two top buttons neatly undone. A gold star of David showing through. His light blue dress shirt under his designer blazer brings out his blue eyes. _Wow_...

“Hi,” says the blue eyes.

“…Hi,” I parrot back like an exhale, my eyes studying him.

The blond blue eyes offers me his large hand and says, “Oliver.”

“Hi,” a little dumbfounded, I take hold of his hand.

His grip is not firm but inviting enough. What a warm hand.

“And you are?”

Oh, right.

“Elio.”

“Nice to meet you, Elio,” Oliver says, a soft smile blooming on his face, “Hungry?”

Where is he going with this? Him still shaking my hand lightly, not letting go of my hand. As if he does, I will just leave him behind.

“Starving,” I say with a bit of caution. Curious but I can’t seem to be able to read him. What is your intent?

“Care to join?”

“Here?”

Oliver simple shakes his head once. He is not going to let go of my hand, it looks like.

“I have better place in mind,” then he pivots on his heels and begins the motion of walking forward.

Ehrrrr--

His well-formed face turns around, his torso leaning back a little with an expression of ‘mhm~?’

“I don’t do one-night stands,” I blurt out. _Duh fuck?!_

There is a little pause. And Oliver turns his upper body a little and takes an audible breath through his nose. And his grey sky blue eyes land right on mine. No blink. Just… looking at me. Then,

“Likewise,” he offers me a soft assuring smile as he unhands my hand with his right fingers, gently peeling them from his left hand grip. And he bends his arm and offers me, “shall we?”

My hand is already in yours. But he wants me to show my willingness. I look at his arm then my hand in his right hand. Then up at his grey blue eyes. Oliver’s eye brows rise a tinge.

Awgh, hell––

“Sure.”

*

**Same Evening, Right outside the bar | Elio**

The fact that Oliver has a vintage Triumph took me by surprise. Flat seat with the rear rail. And the immediate thought that comes to me is that I'm not going to wrap my arms around him like a motorcycle hoochies normally do. The half helmet with a D-ring is ridiculous enough for a person who prefer walking over any motorized transportation. So, I don't wrap my arms around him. Oliver glances over noticing my decision to hold on to the rear rail, 

“Well, hang tight, you know how the New York traffic is,” Oliver says with a wide grin.

The engine revs up and his cologne and a scent of cigar greet me. Then, something very Oliver hits my nose as Oliver zips through the streets. What surprised me more is how casual Oliver appears the whole time.

. 

“Do you like woodfire-oven pizza?” Oliver asks, swinging his long leg out carefully not to accidently hit me with his foot.

I just blink and simply look at him with a mildly stunned expression.

“Trust me on this, you won’t regret it,” states Oliver with such confidence.

Funnily enough, now 20 minutes later, (I do not know how he was able to get his order at the peak evening from an Italian Restaurant that is packed with people) I find myself hearing Oliver say:

“Thanks, Tom, you are the best, man!”

Tom waves his hand with a jolly smile, his hand holding the expertly wrapped calzone and a giant cup of Italian soda.

It’s a roof access that has the giant thick red ‘Authorized Personnel Only’ sign on its surface.

“Well, shall we––?” Oliver offers the open palm of his free hand.

I did ask, once we started walking away from the restaurant, whether I could carry some but his response was a nonchalant mild grin with a soft wince at the bridge of his nose, “I got it.” He finds me adorable, eh?

“I came here almost daily when I was writing my dissertation,” Oliver begins, while setting up a little picnic for us.

Although there are no visible stars, the lights of the New York is quite beautiful from this view.

“Dissertation?”

Oliver pauses briefly studying my face, “in Ancient Studies, namely Archeology.”

I must have cocked my head.

“Why? I don’t look like a person who would be interested in Archeology?”

“No,” I shake my head lightly, “it’s not that.”

“It’s just unexpected?”

Taking words out of my mouth, I feel myself relaxing a bit, “…yeah.”

“Well, if I can have my way, I’d be finishing up my doctorate and be teaching. Maybe at Columbia.”

Teaching? Was there a reason why he didn’t pursue his dream?

“What do you do for living? I mean….,” I fidget a little at how abrupt those words came out of my mouth, “if you don’t mind me asking.”

“No, I do not mind,” Oliver gives me some napkin and tosses a lopsided grin, “I’m in advertising.”

.

.

.

“So, how is it like to be a pianist?”

Oh, you are intending to go with the assumption. Hm.

“I’m mostly the background music,” I begin picking out pepperonis from my slice.

Oliver casually asks whether I don’t like pepperonis, I just shrug my shoulders.

“I am certain you are not the background music,” counters Oliver.

“Oh, I sure am, that’s what a lounge pianist is all about.”

“Well, I heard some call themselves as jazz pianists,” Oliver looks up at me with knowing look.

“Ego, Oliver, I’m not that engulfed in my own pride to call myself a jazz pianist when I’m playing in a piano bar. If I were to call myself one, there are many different things to happen.”

“Such as?”

Curious to get to know me. The pizza Oliver didn’t even bother to ask about my preference turns out to be really good. Closer to what I used to eat at the street vendor back home. A little bit on the chewier side but quite good.

“Jazz pianists hold a concert and people pay to come listen to you. Where a lounge pianist, you are there to set the mood and take requests.”

Oliver nods as he sips on his Italian soda.

“No beer?”

Oliver simply shakes his head, quietly chewing, “I have precious cargo so––.”

“Precious cargo?” I counter with a snort.

“Yeah, plus weekday violation ticket is not any cheaper if you get stopped by the police,” Oliver says with his cheek bulging.

*

**Oliver**

I don’t know why I feel so comfortable around Elio. As if I had met him from somewhere. At the same time, I’m thoroughly enjoying his standoffishness. His bright hazel eyes taking an upward look through his unruly curls. I so want to ask him where he is from as I sense he has subtle European incline to his speech. By his name, he might be from Italy? But I can’t risk stepping in too far.

Then, I get my answer.

“(The stars are mansions built by Nature’s hand)”

After the third slice, Elio just looks up and recites the line from a verse that I am very familiar with. William Wordsworth.

“Well, if you drive out a couple of hours, there’s still hope,” I answer back.

Elio’s angular face snaps back to my direction as his dark chocolate curls sway at his abrupt motion.

“My Italian probably sucks but I can still read and understand.”

And the beautiful head of his simply tilts a little.

The conversation naturally ping-pongs between us. About poetry, about archeology, about linguistics, about mythology, about music.

“Come on, no one would have guessed that he was straight,” I tell him.

“Oh, and you think Lady Gaga is _really_ the mother monster of all gay,” Elio huffs with low chuckles.

“I know she is very much into her Italian heritage,” I reply.

“And the chicken parmesan is _the_ staple Italian dish,” counters Elio.

The way he jokes back with the cultural understanding of the topic’s background is out of this world. I’ve never met anyone who could carry on a comfortable discourse with me.

“Is there anything you don’t know?” I ask, me smiling like a complete idiot, totally mesmerized by him.

Elio pauses, his eyes studying me, taking a long sip from his cup, “what do you mean?”

“I don’t mean it as a challenge, it’s just… I like the way you say things and you seem to know a lot about a lot of stuff.”

Elio just shrugs. A self-soothing mechanism maybe? Or has anyone given any compliments like that to him?

“Being a professor’s son would do that to you.”

And I quickly debate in my head whether I should ask about his father. Surprisingly,

“Oh, I’m sorry, you said you wanted to teach and I didn’t mean…,” Elio apologizes quickly.

A quiet and inaudible huff escapes my nose. I don’t know how Vimini knew but if this is the guy I need to make fall in love with me in ten days, I hit the jackpot. A kind heart. An artist with broad understanding that matches mine.

“I don’t get it,” I say to him, “how are you single?”

Elio too huffs, in his case ‘in relief,’ and says with a soft grin, “what’s not to get? Because New Yorkers are usually assholes.”

I burst into loud laughter and almost knock the take-out cup.

Oh, yes, this is going to be an easy bet that I sure hell will be winning!

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –Names (all these side character names– *small sigh*), including the last name of Oliver and company names, are from the original motion picture(2003) of this AU fic's title. [ Translation ] not that important.   
>  –uhmm…as with _And So…_ , this is a sorta-kinda version 2.0, as I have reduced the number of chapters (in other words, this time, I'm going for _quality_ , though me-brain ponders it's questionable, than quantity *giggles with cheeky grin*) I previously posted. So, if you wish, click NEXT for more.   
> 


	2. Friday (D-10)_Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver goes with his assumption about Elio. Yet, he cannot help but feeling so drawn to him, though the whole thing is for winning DeLauer account. Elio is wheeling him in, so he can drop Oliver like a third period economics class he hated in high school.

**Chapter Two. Friday (D-10)_Part One: So It Begins**

**Next day, Friday, Lunch | Elio**

“But you _hate_ pepperoni,” Marzia says grumbling about my particular dislike towards putting pepperoni on a pizza. She pointedly pushes down her fork on the chopped romaine leaves on her plate.

After submitting my brief to Chiara in the morning, I got a call from Marzia insisting on ‘catching-up’ during lunch. I don’t have any class on Friday. But you don’t even get up this early when you don’t have any classes to go to, I countered. Shut up and meet me at 12:30.

It has been a very long while, seeing Marzia this intrigued.

“You picked out the pepperonis, didn’t you?” she asks.

I repeat the very thing I just said, that the dough was a bit chewier than I would have liked.

“And he didn’t say anything about it?”

I shrug my shoulder as an answer, taking another bite of my burger. Lightly charred outside but medium-rare inside.

“Oh, come on––, if your boss approved of the first note you turned in, that means there must be more~,” she pouts her lips, putting on her cute lost kitten face.

I reach for the lemonade and takes a sip. And I sigh.

“You know I’m doing this for you, right?”

“Yes, because you are a very good and loyal friend and you luuv me,” Marzia grins.

I exhale almost rolling my eyes, “finishing a large thin crust pizza between two men are not that surprising. What surprised me was where he took me after.”

*

**Last Evening, Thursday | Elio**

“Let me guess, you know someone who knows someone?” I remark, as my voice echoes inside the completely empty basketball court. The giant stadium is being lit up one overhead light at a time, from the farthest side towards where I am standing. It is such a sight, I never imagined myself to witness. 

Oliver, after switching on all the lights, walks over to me holding a basketball. A wide grin plastered on his handsome face.

“So, you are serious,” I look up at him, hoping the tone of my voice would convey my disconcerted notion.

“Why? A game of hoops too challenging for you?” says Oliver, his gaze right on mine.

I know what a guy wants when he uses a tone like that. He is flirting with me. And Oliver is not even hiding it.

“We just had a whole pizza,” I still protest.

“Yeah, about thirty minutes ago,” Oliver presses on, taking off his blazer. After neatly folding it half, he tosses it elegantly over his shoulder.

“And you intend to play in that?” I tip my chin up a little, looking at his designer dress shirt.

Oliver chuckles. Gosh––, his voice.

“Well, Elio,” he tucks the ball under his arms and lifts his wrist, “do you see this? it’s called a shirt button. And~~, when you undo it like so,” and Oliver undoes it and starts to roll up his sleeves, “viola!”

I huff with a lopsided smile.

“I love your smile,” Oliver comments.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” I toss an upward glance at him.

“Well, I can always dry-clean,” Oliver says casually, “are you telling me you are worried about my $200 shirt getting soaked in sweat?”

I don’t look away but keep holding his gaze, as Oliver continues to the other arm, undoes his button and meticulously folds up his sleeves.

“Or are you saying you would rather see me naked?”

And I catch his eyes narrow just a smidge. Oh, he is definitely dialing up the intensity.

The moment stills and we just stand there, staring at each other. Oliver looking into me, I to him. His look is _THE_ basic definition of undressing me with his eyes.

I click my tongue, feigning begrudging acquiescence, “oh, alright,” and I add in a light toss of my hair. Just noticeable enough.

Then, I walk towards the sideline of the court, taking off my jacket. On my peripheral vision, I see Oliver walking, catching up to stride, right next to me. When I put my jacket down, he places his on top of mine. Hm–. marking me as your claim already, huh?

“You know you have almost a foot more advantage over me,” I point out to him, walking back towards the court.

“Well, l read somewhere that length matters not. It’s the technique and the sustained stamina are the game changer,” Oliver says nonchalantly.

My head snaps up with the immediate, ‘did he just??’ and I am greeted with the knowing look. And then, Oliver stands in front of me. Two steps away. His gaze now almost burning holes in my face.

Oliver places the ball between his palms, in front of his chest, and gives a good firm push. Still looking at me.

I raise my eyebrows in a ‘well~, what are we waiting for?’ With a little chortle like huff, Oliver tosses the ball straight into my torso.

“Don’t go easy on me,” I say to him with a grin as I catch the ball.

Oliver just grins.

“Never.”

*

**Friday, Lunch | Elio**

“Oh, my god–,” Marzia exclaims with her mouth full, “and you said he just approached you at the bar?”

“Yup, he just introduced himself to me and assumed I was a lounge pianist,” I dip my fries in mustard.

“Wow~~, what are the odds,” Marzia says sipping her diet soda, “right on the day you were thinking about meeting some guy for a magazine article.”

Then, she mulls some thought over while _finally_ chewing her greens.

“I don’t remember a guy matching the description. He must be new or come during nights I don’t work,” she concludes. And she adds how she still doesn’t understand why I dip my fries in mustard.

I just grab a couple more and look at her eyes intentionally, while I dip generous amount of mustard on them. As expected, Marzia grimaces as if I’m eating some frog eggs raw.

“You’re disgusting!” she laughs as I munch on with exaggerated ‘om nom nom’ sound with a face expression of food-gasming.

“So, if he assumed you are some starving artist, how will he find you?” she asks, stabbing more romaine into her fork.

“I left the wallet.”

“The one I gave you for your 21st birthday?” Marzia asks wide-eyed.

On my 21st birthday, Marzia had her friend etch the postmodern-ask image of Monet’s berm on the vintage bi-fold leather wallet she found at the second-hand shop down in Soho. She has been teasing me of carrying a wallet, calling me a Neanderthal, that nobody carries the cash anymore as ApplePay is much easier.

“Wait, how did you get in this morning? I thought _Composure_ has the strict entrance pass policy,” Marzia asks.

I just pull out my employee card out of my smartphone card slot and flick it lightly a couple of times.

A salacious grin colors her face, “oh, you sneaky cheeky husee, you~.”

“Yup, you see, if he is really interested in me,” and I take another sip of the house lemonade, “he has everything to find me.” Oh, I miss Mafalda’s freshly squeezed ones.

Marzia gives my another ‘you cheeky bastard’-look before she pushes the chopped onion to the side. For some reason, I feel protective about how he kissed me. Of which I didn’t share with Chiara when I submitted my notes to her this morning.

*

**Friday, Warner Advertising | Oliver**

“And you didn’t even bother to ask for his phone number?” Thayer asks in a blatant, ‘are you stupid or that cocky?’ tone.

Tony tosses me one of my shirts that was deliver first thing this morning. Over from the other side, I still see other teams ladies and gentlemen looking at my gorgeous physique.

“We are living in the digital age, my friend,” I reply, threading my arm into the freshly pressed shirt, “plus, I have his full name. Elio Perlman. Just like a glass slipper of Cinderella, he left a clue,” I point my open palm deftly on the vintage leather wallet I placed on my desk.

“Perlman–?” Tony repeats Elio’s family name, studying the wallet without touching it, “as in Ron Perlman?”

I shrug my shoulders, buttoning my shirt.

“Lost and found,” Thayer says with a moderately dragged ‘ahh––.’

Tony thumbs on his smartphone and clicks his tongue, “there is no Elio Perlman. No LinkIn, No Instagram.”

“Huh~~~, interesting––,” I play coquettish.

“Dude, you already looked him up?”

“yup,” I answer with a light pop of my lips.

“And you are still confident,” states Tony, puzzled.

And I sit down in my chair, take a sip of my coffee, and scoot up my chair closer to the desk casually, before I grab hold of Elio’s wallet. With Thayer and Tony are looking, I open his wallet calmly and pull out an ID. Then I flip its front face to their direction.

Two inch closer and goes simultaneously, “ohhhhh~~~~.”

“Yes, I know exactly where to find him.”

Tony confirms after thumbing his black screen that Elio is teaching a class this afternoon at the youth center.

*

Time seems to move like molasses. My heart almost feels like it's so ready to jump out all day today. I cancel some of the buyers meeting so I can freshen up before heading to the local youth center. When I arrive, it is quite easy to find the classroom where Elio’s been giving lessons. A wonderful sound of melody echoes down the hallway. Classical piece, I bet.

The place is old and the spring-loaded hinge door is propped open with a chair. At the corner, Elio is sitting at an old hand-me down grand piano, surrounded by many kids.

And all of a sudden I remember how we kissed last night at the echoing basketball court.

*

**Last Evening, Thursday | Oliver**

To my absolute surprise and dismay, Elio is quite nimble and quick on his steps. It’ll take me a bit of getting used to with his fakes. Even though I literally tower him by height difference, his swift feet movements tell me Elio had some experience. Though I changed my dress shoes to my running shoes, his Air Jorden definitely works better on the court surface. Every time Elio’d get away from my blocks, his free throw shot goes through.

It is like an intricate dance. Almost like one of tribal mating rituals, it feels. Elio nudges and pushes my boundaries. I too test his strategies and offence mode.

“I said, don’t go easy on me,” Elio says between his breaths. I can clearly hear him smile. He is enjoying this as much as I do.

Elio in front of me, knee lightly bent, his feet wide-and-firmly planted, his back towards my chest, trying to fake his next from me with the subtle movements of his shoulders.

“Do you think I’m going easy on you?” I retort back, “what would I gain from that?”

And I deliberately give a meaningful bump of my bulging crotch on the back of Elio’s jeans. I hear him huff-snort.

“So you find me interesting,” Elio bends his elbows out, the ball between his chest, not letting my hand to snatch it loose from his grip.

“Interesting?” I chuck his own word back to him.

And of course, Elio ducks his head and swivels out of my open embrace. Now, only a step away, dribbling the ball close to his bent knee. Him being quite observant, Elio switches from outside to the inside and to the other side, with his gaze locked on mine.

It’s a sight. His cheeks blushing with soft pastel red. His curls are getting curlier as he sweats, forehead glistening with just enough layer of sheen. His mouth parted wide enough for me to see his moist tongue.

Almost too quickly, Elio pulls his feet together and swiftly turn 360 in the spot. I spring up to block his shot but the ball just misses my fingertip.

With the familiar crisp sound of basket net and the ball passing through, Elio officially wins.

I turn on my heels and take a couple of steps to recover the ball. As if we are two long time good friends, Elio’s arm shot up in the mid-air and he goes, ‘the crowd goes wild. Huwah–, huwah–,’ as if the sound is coming from some place else. I can’t help but laugh how comfortable we became in just couple of hours. And I dribble the ball slowly but rhythmically back, closer to him. I put my dominant hand on Elio’s shoulder and all of a sudden he flinches away. Did I startle him?

Elio rubs at the spot my hand touched, looking up at me through his sweat damp unruly curls. Oh, god––, those eyes.

“Did I hit a nerve?” I ask him.

Elio simply shakes his head as if it was nothing.

I stand in front of him. Bouncing the ball, ever so coolly.

Elio’s hazel eyes studies me. Unflinching gaze. As if he is trying to read my mind. And we just stand there, evening out our breaths. And I don’t know how long but I find myself relishing this tension. Is your heart beating as fast as mine? Not from playing the game but because it’s you I’m standing in front of.

Elio fills his lungs, eloquently. And,

“You haven’t answered my question,” Elio asks in a half of a notch lower register.

I pause my hand and hold the ball on my palm. His gaze is not going to break from mine. Interesting.

I huff.

Then, I bring the ball up over his shoulder with my arm comfortably and take a step forward close to Elio. I see his throat bob. Ah––, you _are_ nervous.

I take an audible inhale. And I begin ping-ponging the ball behind Elio’s head, leisurely and quietly.

“What was the question you asked?” I begin.

Elio simply blink once.

“oh, yeah, right,” I feign a grudging acquiescence, and I return his question in a quiet, low voice, “do I find you interesting?”

His eyes on me, Mine on his.

Time feels as though someone just pressed a freeze button. I can see his chest bellowing steadily. Still a beat too fast. The edges of my lips tip up.

And I tilt my head just so… and–––

I lean in.

*

**Friday, Youth Center | Elio**

It is very hard to miss or _not_ notice someone Oliver’s size: especially his looks. And I’m pretty sure he himself is thoroughly aware about this. We are just about to wrap up and one of my students asks me to play some classical. Alright, I nodded. When I begin, no, no, no, the other one, the little boy says. The other one?, I ask.

The little boy, Xander, whom happens to be one of the reasons why I started teaching here, _after_ doing one of my ‘how to.’ The subject of that monthly column article was completely unrelated to the youth culture but the way Xander brightens up every time he is around piano, I had to do something.

“Oh~~, the _other_ one,” I tease him.

Xander’s head nod furiously like one of those cartoon characters. So adorable. Even after going through such hardship in his early life, he is simply a ray of sunshine. The resilience, the hope, the innocence.

_Bach - Capriccio in B-flat major, BWV 992_

Via the peripheral vision, I see Oliver walking in. He takes a look at how the door is being propped open, with a bit of amusement in his face. And, he quietly walks in, a couple of steps to the wall, before leaning his upper back against it. Casually, shoving his hands in his pant pocket.

Other children begin to leave one by one. At the end the piece, Xander and Tiana are the only one left, standing by the piano.

“Thank you,” Tina says with sheepish smile.

I lower myself a little and reply, “(You are quite welcome).”

Tina blushes and shrugs, before leaping up to give me a quick peck on my cheek, then just as quickly runs out of the classroom with “Ciao, Elio.”

Xander grumbles, gathering his stuff.

Tina trots up the little slope of the small auditorium-ask room until she reaches the classroom entrance door. I smile quietly. She is waiting for Xander. Puppy love.

Once two children are out of the room, I see Oliver making his way down to the front of the room. And I pretend to not notice him being there. Putting away the donated music sheets. The tiny stools and toy music instruments, as well. 

“So, I see I have a competition,” Oliver’s low booming voice lands on my ear.

I grin to myself.

Without turning around, “I didn’t think you’d be threatened by second graders,” and finish stacking up the stool.

Oliver doesn’t say anything but leans over on the piano, with his bent elbow on the corner of the instrument.

When I turn around, he says,

“Hi.”

I smile.

“Do you have your phone with you?” Oliver asks.

“Yeah,” I reply with a light nod.

Oliver hums quietly, soft smile blooming in his eyes. And he reaches out his open palm.

I tilt my head a little.

Oliver’s two grey blues widen a little as he gestures his palm. So, I fish out my mobile, unlock it with my thumb, and hand it to him.

He tips his head gently as if he is tipping his hat. Then, he quickly swivels it on his palm and thumbs on the surface. A quick seconds later, Oliver simply hands me back the phone.

I huff, taking my phone back. And as soon as I have it in my grip, it rings. I look up at him.

Oliver lifts his eyebrows, placing his phone against his ear. I look at him with a quizzical look, my open palm rising in the mid-air a little. But Oliver just raises his eyebrows in a ‘go on, answer it.’

I exhale with a short chortle, before swiping it to answer.

My eyes on his. His eyes on mine.

“Hello?”

/ “Hi, May I speak to Elio?” /

I huff out a laugh, “this is he.”

/ “Hi, I don’t know if you remember me but, this is Oliver. Oliver Barry.” /

“Hi, Oliver.”

/ “Did you get home okay?” /

“Yes, I did, thank you for asking,” and I think to myself, ‘what is he up to?’

/ “Listen, I found your wallet on the floor,” / and Oliver reaches into his pocket and takes out my wallet,

“Oh! That’s where it was,” I act surprise. Though I’m sure he can tell I’m not really that surprise.

/ “I was hoping that I can return this to the owner,” / says Oliver.

“Thank you, I thought I lost it somewhere on the road. Thinking it must have fallen out.”

/ “Well, I had to do some detective work to find a way to return this to you,” / Oliver counters.

“Oh, that’s so very kind of you but you didn’t have to. You can just return it at the bar where we met,” I give him a lopsided grin.

Oliver takes in a long audible breath. And he just lifts his hand with my wallet (the bait I left).

I look at him. Then, at my wallet in his grip. Then, I look back up at his beautiful eyes. And Oliver is just standing there, saying nothing further.

So I huff out an exhale with a lopsided grin before I take a step forward to take it.

“Thank you,” I tell him. But for some reason, he doesn’t let go of my wallet.

A little hand-tug-of-war.

I raise my eyebrows and get my phone away from my ear. With us holing my wallet together at the opposite end, I press ‘end’ button. Looking at him. Me giving, ‘you see I’m hanging up.’

Still, Oliver doesn’t let it loose from his grip. I half-roll my eyes with a wider smile. Then, he tugs my wallet held between us closer towards him, unexpectedly. And I lose my balance a little, keeling over towards him, almost bump into his chest. That is when Oliver hangs up and wraps his arms around the back of my waist.

I take my wallet away from him and he huffs once, quietly through his nose.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Oliver says.

I can only huff. But my cheek muscles ascend to its highest elevation.

*

**Last Evening, Thursday, Stadium | Elio**

I don’t know why his touch startled me. Maybe because I caught every unspoken cues and physical signs Oliver has been sending me while we were sweating out cheese and herbs we ingested, a half an hour ago.

With his outstretched arms bracketing just next to my ears, I can see Oliver’s eye. All those tiny threads that are making his eyes grey hued baby blue. There are some icy quality to them. After each rhythmical slow blink, those two soft blues unwaveringly hold my gaze. Though not overwhelming but quite intense, I can't help but being drawn to them. 

Before I realize what exactly is happening, I find him leaning down, with his lips part. Just a little. His head tilted enough for our noses to brush.

I tuck my chin, dropping my gaze. It’s more instinctual response. I hear him take in a tiny gasp. I look back up at him.

His Adam’s apple waves. And he rubs the tips of our noses together, coaxing. On my far-peripheral vision, I see him letting go of the ball as he slowly wrap his arms around across the back of my shoulders. The empty stadium echoes with bouncing sound of the ball. I let out subdued laughs through my nose. And I feel his large palm making a slow full contact between my shoulder blades. Oliver takes in a quiet breath and whispers, “may I kiss you?”

I fill my chest, slowly. A blink.

“Do you often kiss someone you just met?” I ask.

Oliver growls with a mischievous smile. The way it resonates through his chest is incredibly gorgeous.

“You are not just someone,” counters Oliver with his low voice.

“Hm,” I just hum.

Oliver huffs once and I feel his palm giving my upper back a little nudge closer to him. He is getting impatient. Our lips only less than a breath away. So, naturally, I part my lips and lick the outline of his lips with the tip of my tongue. I feel his shudder with low moan.

When he tries to press his lips over mine, I tuck in my chin. Oliver mouths, ‘okay.’ I give him a small yet approving smile. And I fill my lungs before I start softly nibble his upper lips with mine. Just lips.

This makes Oliver let out low guttural noise. As a reward, I capture both his lips into mine. A full contact but PC-13, letting them hang in place. I feel his lips smile against mine. Then, his lips move. Once, a little pause, then one more. And I let him. Slow gentle lingering lip kisses. Our eyes still open.

I hear him sucking in air as he wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer. His mouth parting wider.

“mhm, mm,” I pull back a little, resonating two syllables at the base of my throat.

With a bit of exasperation, “….what?” Oliver asks.

“I want you to respect me,” I whisper to him. Quiet but clearly.

Oliver blinks. And he leans back a little, not letting go or loosen his hold around my body.

And amazingly, he looks into my eyes before he says, “I do.”

I study him. Left eye, then right. Steady, Unflinching gaze.

“I did tell you I don’t ever do one-night stand. You understand what it means.”

Oliver inhales, “crystal.”

I fill my lungs and let the silence hang between us for a few more seconds.

He is really serious about this, isn’t he?

Something about him is self-assured yet calm and gentle.

So, I mouth, ‘okay.’ And I see Oliver smile wide before he presses his lips over mine.

His fingers thread into the back of my hair. The way his fingertips massage my lightly damp scalp sends electrifying sensation to every corner of my body. His low moan wind around my eardrum like TrueHD surround sound. Just enough but not too much.

The way he swirls his tongue and sucking off my lips between kisses tell me he had many prior experiences. And he is a type of guy who knows exactly how he likes it. The strange part is that I find myself melting into him. To this self-assured, somewhat of a cocky guy-guy.

Sure enough, I feel him nudge his bulging crotch against me. Ohhhh, yes, I know.

In return, I quickly separate, making sure to let the kissing sound echo. I see his lips chasing after mine.

“uhmm… I don’t know about you but… I gotta be somewhere and it’s getting late,” I tell him, taking his swollen glistening lips.

He rolls in his lips and scraps his teeth over the bottom one, “…yes, yes, of course,” and he puts on, ‘I’m a gentleman and I respect your wishes and boundaries’ face.

We manage to separate and I march on to get my jacket. Seeing his blazer on top of mine, I huff quietly under my breath. Before I turn around, noticing Oliver making his way here as well, I fish out my wallet and drop it as clandestinely as possible.

I hand his blazer to him, lightly swishing my stray hair from my forehead.

“Thank you,” says Oliver, low.

I breathe in with a little shrug before I thread my arms into the jacket.

“Well, Oliver, I had a good time.”

“Likewise. Take you home?”

I simple shake my head with a smile. And I take hold of his chin with my thumb and curled index finger, and press a peck on his lips. I can tell he wants to kiss me more but I part just as quickly.

We look at each other. I see him so content and intrigued.

Damn, I have to make him fall in love with me just to break his heart.

But––, it is what it is. I fill my lungs and tip my eyebrows before I turn around to head out.

With a light salute, I toss:

“Ciao!”

*

**Friday, Youth center | Oliver**

Having him back in my embrace after having such a great time yesterday evening, it feels surreal that Vimini happened to pick Elio, of all people. I know it’s quite cheesy but it really is fancy seeing him. Here.

“So you missed me,” Elio says quietly.

“Terribly,” I answer. Gosh, his smile is so gorgeous.

“Thank you for getting my wallet. It means a lot to me,” Elio says with his eyes smiling, softly.

“You’re quite welcome. Any plans this evening?”

I hear him huff out a short laugh, “Oh, I don’t know––, I met a guy yesterday and I had a really good time in a very long while. I might see him.”

I raise my eyebrows, “might?”

“––yeah…”

I can only chuckle.

“May I kiss you?”

Elio smiles before he says, “yes, please.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –if you still like this AU so far, click NEXT for more.


	3. Friday (D-10)_Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver treats Elio to a very fancy nice dinner. Once Elio is so sure that he has Oliver at the tip of his fingers, Elio decides to get some help from someone, to pull the plug so he can be done and over with this assignment from Chiara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Blatant Homage ] No, I haven’t asked permission to use the character (And I don’t think the author knows I’m a huge fan *sweating*) But it’s me swooning over a memorable AU fic in CMBYN extended verse. [Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15490101?view_full_work=true) is the original. For the sake of adaptation, I’ve decided to change their names. And for those who has a black belt in fanfic kungfu will know what I did. hehehe  
> .  
> –erhmm... , although I strive for coherent use of sexy scenes in my drabbles, uh... my rating scale is quite off. Do please kindly let me know if this needs a rating up. *palms flushed together*

**Chapter Three. Friday (D-10)_Part Two: Unscripted**

**Oliver**

I insist on having Elio’s hand in mine. The way Elio huffs with his mouth softly parted, with his lopsided smile, is seriously arousing.

“What? No bike?” Elio asks, looking up at me through his unruly curls.

I shake my head once with a small smile, “lyft.”

And I bring two fingers in between my lips and blow a loud whistle once I spot an empty cab. With a bit of wince, he looks up at me as if I had done something so incredibly magical.

“I’ve always wanted to do that."

“yeah~?” I look at him as the yellow cab swings around.

Elio nods twice. He is what? mid- to late-twenties? Yet the look on his face is so young and pure. I don't know how a person living in a city like New York can still have that; something untainted, something not yet jaded. Is this because Elio is a musician?

“I guess you didn’t have the need,” and I open the door for him.

To that, Elio gives out another quiet huff with a smile. I am beginning to register this particular reaction(?) as his way of feeling a bit awkward. Am I making you nervous, Elio? And he does this light shrug with his shoulders. So nonchalant. Like, ‘maybe, I don’t know.’

.

I had to pull some strings to get a reservation this evening. Usually, it’s at least six months in advance. But one of the liquor campaign I did a few months ago got me into one those ‘list’ for a special occasions like this.

“I…,” Elio begins, in whisper, his chin tipped up, his lips dangerously close to my ear, as the expertly iron-pressed uniformed host leads us to our table, “I’m seriously underdressed for this.”

I snake my arm around him, just above his waist and give him a light squeeze.

Soon, we are seated and three different menus are presented for us. It turns out Elio speaks fluent French. The server blushes.

“How many languages to you speak?” I ask him.

Elio simply waves his hand as if it is nothing.

Apparently, Elio is quite an expert in wine as well. With his fluency in French and the way he navigated the wine menu had the host smugness’s to come off quite quickly. He orders the shiitake cordon bleu with anchovy-olive.

“Tell me again, how do you know so much?” I ask him, mesmerized.

Elio rubs the back of his head with a little huff, his curls slowly flowing over his forehead. Gosh––, I love his smile.

“I… uh… when I was growing up, we had many guests. And my father enjoyed having all walks of life. Neighbors would just drop in for a long evening chat. So… uh… I guess I was exposed to it more than any,” replies Elio. His tone humble and ‘it’s really not a big deal’ way.

.

The evening goes well way better than I’d ever expected it to be. Just like the talk over a pizza, we talk about everything under the sun. The breadth of Elio’s knowledge and the things he knows keep astounds me. And the subject somehow digresses to a certain underground culture.

“You are serious,” Elio’s eyes widen.

I shake my head, “stop teasing,” sipping on the wine left in my glass.

“How long have you lived in New York?” asks Elio, rhetorically, with disbelief, still smiling.

God––, he doesn’t know what he is doing to me, does he? His candid and open expression shoot straight down to my base.

Then, he fishes out his phone and thumbs the surface.

“good, the uber will be here in ten.”

“tonight?”

“why? do you have something more important? Or Friday is not a good day for a boy scout like you?”

The fact he somehow knows how to push my buttons is quite amazing. That I like being challenged and am quite competitive.

*

**Elio**

It is quite entertaining that I notice Oliver undressing me with his eyes the entire time. Yes, it does cross my mind that if the circumstances were different, I’d really seriously be thinking about dating-dating him. Even knowing I had an entrée that had anchovy in it, Oliver kisses me in the Uber. Of course, I keep it just enough. Dangling the bait. While I text her to make sure my plan will go as planned.

“Jesus,” Oliver groans, as we are sitting in the back of the car for good five minutes.

New York traffic.

“It’s not far,” I quickly think on my feet, “can we get off here?” I ask the Uber driver.

Oliver hands him the tip and we get out. He keeps my hand in his when I tell him it’s just down the block or so.

As we pass the dimly lit alley between buildings, Oliver suddenly pulls us into it. His hand cupping my face, kissing my lips, breathless. Me taking wobbly steps backwards until my back lightly thuds against the concrete wall. All the while, Oliver is having his way with my mouth and tongue. The intensity and the fervor make me forget about the whole thing and I kiss him back just as passionately. Not rushed but savoring each other.

When we can’t help but to separate as we ran out of air, Oliver whispers, his lips swollen and pink, “I can taste the wine on your tongue.”

The faint street light shining from the far casts a silvery hue on his grey blue eyes. The way he looks at me is... . My heart pounds hard against my rib cage and I know Oliver can tell that I feel the same about him.

“…can we–?” Oliver begins but I quickly reach down and take hold of his bulging base.

I hear him gasp out loud. The breathlessness.

“I thought–,” Oliver tries to reason.

“Shut up,” I say into his lips, kissing him back.

I busy my hand and open his fly just wide enough to push my hand in to grip his erection. So warm and so hard. At my touch, his breath stutters. His palms pressing against the wall just above my shoulders.

“Fuck––, Elio,” Oliver says rapturously.

I tip my head up and whisper into his ears. Telling him how gorgeous his swollen cock feels in my hand. Tease him a little about noticing his recently manscaped the area. Pushing my hand down a little further to massage his jewels. Who knew the ‘how to do sensual massage’ would pay off in this way? For that column, I met three different sex experts and sexologists to enhance the sexual pleasure by learning about the techniques. At that time, I wasn’t able to really experiment other than myself.

A tender strum of my fingers and a gradual-gentle squeeze fondling make Oliver grunt in ecstatic huffs. I lick his ear lobe and whisper the coaxing words of how good he is doing. I feel him shudder and I can tell he is pressing down on his feet so his knees won’t buckle.

And I rub my cheek against his like a kitten as I pump his full length and whisper through my lightly gritted teeth, “I want you to mark me.”

Oliver groans with irrecognizable swear words. I move my grip up to his top half and increase the speed. He kisses me hard, his breath shallow. I let go of his jewels and pull up my shirt.

“Come, baby, paint me with your cum,” I urge him with hushed tone.

He grunts with his body stiffens as his climax. Oliver is definitely well-hydrated. I get a generous and healthy load on my belly. The mountain of a man slumps with satisfied and happy sigh. I praise him softly.

“Man… you will be the death of me,” Oliver says his cheek on my shoulder.

*

**Oliver**

I’ve never imagined that I’d get such a mind-blowing handjob at the dingy street alley. It was so incredibly good that I wanted to ask why Elio remained single: _Again_. I was going to ask and persuade him to come to my place and catch up with this establishment later. But as if he read my mind, Elio pushes in his long fingers into my shorts. Awh–, man… the way his fingers move. Wow––. After the deed is done, Elio soothes me without making me feel embarrassed.

I know all this whirlwind of courting Elio to fall in love with me started as a bet. But if this is a preview of how our bedroom life is going to be, this is definitely turning out to be something more than I’d ever expected.

When I offer him a hankerchief, Elio looks exceptionally surprised.

“Who says the chivalry has died?” Elio says softly, meaningfully taking his time wiping my mess away from his belly.

Then, he goes, ‘oops–, I missed something,’ quietly and licks his wet thumb slowly, while looking into my eyes. Jesus–.

We share a few more moments of kiss. I wrap my arms around him tight like one of those 50s black and white movie. Elio elbows me telling me we’re gonna miss the good part.

So, after gathering myself up and giving him a light peck on his cheek, we head on to this famous club.

.

The place is quite elegant. _Cleaner_ than I imagined. Elio takes a quick look around and tosses the chin at the bar tender.

“Will you go ahead and wait for me at the bar? I gotta–,” and he points his thumb over his shoulder towards the bathroom.

We both grin-wide. And I nod, “do you want me to order you anything?”

Elio waves his hand in mid-air and mouths, ‘anything,’ before he disappears to the direction of the bathroom.

I sit down where I feel I can have my privacy from other folks and wave at the bar keep.

“Someone looks happy.”

A soft ethereal voice echoes from my right.

I turn my head around and am quickly taken a back. And I cannot help but to blink fast.

At first glance, my brain processes her as ‘how did Elio manage to get into this elaborate outfit and make up this quick?’

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” says the woman.

“…no, no,” I quickly gather myself.

“Velvet,” she introduces herself, “Velvet Noir,” and offers her hand so deftly.

I am completely mesmerized, almost hypnotized. And I simply take her hand and give a soft kiss, as if we are back in olden days.

“I must say, you look a lot like my beau,” Velvet tells me, sitting down, her hand moving so elegantly.

“I uh… thank you,” I replay to her.

She laughs quietly under her breath with a smile, “don’t worry, my heart belongs to my Douglas.”

“Oliver,” I introduce myself, finally coming out of daze.

“It’s pleasure to meet you, Oliver,” Velvet smiles, as the bartender brings out my order, “ah––, simple man, gin? Instead of vodka?”

I nod.

“Classy,” Velvet adds, “so it’s your first time I see.”

And Velvet and I carry on an amazing conversation about the establishment. She too is surprised that I’ve never been to this place being almost a New York native majority of my adult life. She shares a story about her fiancé. How they met. That he is away, she misses him so much. That she came back from state-wide tour.

“So uh… how did you get involved…?” I trail off, without knowing which would be the best way to ask such question.

I mean, individual choice of occupation is for their own reason. But I thought with that look and class, she would have done well in Hollywood industry or theater. By the way she talks about it, Velvet has quite the following. So, as far as my little brain can process, in this era of Social Media and wider range of platform, I can definitely have her become main stream.

Velvet blinks once with a small smile then breaks out into a series of soft chuckle. Even in this awkward moment, why do I think if Elio were a woman, she’d definitely be _the_ decked-up version?

To my surprise, she gracefully swivels in her high chair. I blink. Then, Velvet gives me a look of, ‘now, young grasshopper, pay close attention,’ with her eyes.

I take an inhale. She places her index finger right under her chin and ever so slowly lifts her chin. Her long milky soft neck is so beautiful. I see her chest expand over her neatly cinched corset. And she gently swallows. Her Adam’s apple waves slowly.

Blink. Blink.

After giving me a few seconds, she brings down her chin as she inhales quietly.

“You see?” says Velvet so softly.

“You are––,” I stammer. Fuck! I messed up.

“Yes, I am,” Velvet says ever so gently with a wide smile, “I was given this body and I don’t regret it.”

Her gesture, the way she carries herself. She reminds me of Audrey Hepburn age films. Velvet places her hand on my thigh and does a little assuring pet. To tell me, I didn’t fuck up. Or that’s how I understood it. She then tells me about her Douglas. How much he misses him.

“Hi!”

A pointed, rather a bit loud, yet familiar voice echoes from my side. Between where Valvet and I sat.

Velvet leans back with a little startle, as Elio crosses his arms in front of his chest.

“What the fuck, Oliver? I leave you alone for three minutes and you are now with her??”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Velvet says and get up off the stool.

“Velvet–,” I try to tell her that she can stay as I can sort this out, “Elio, it’s not…”

She elegantly presses her palm at the very end of her sternum like a noble woman in Victorian age did and adds quietly “it was nice meeting you, Oliver” before walks away quite swiftly.

“duh fuck?!”

“Elio––, we were just having a conversation.”

“Conversation?? She had her hand on your thigh and you were leaning over to kiss her.”

“What??” I am completely taken aback by the absurdity, “Elio, it’s not–, I wasn’t–,” but Elio doesn’t give me a chance to tell him anything.

“You can’t help yourself, can you? Oh, I should have known.”

“Please, Elio, calm down.”

“Calm down? What? _Now_ I’m embarrassing you?”

As if on cue, the bartender comes back from behind the curtain and asks whether he is okay.

“Am I okay? Do I look okay? No! my _boyfriend_ just hit on some random stranger. While I was in bathroom. Bathroom!”

Boyfriend? I think to myself. What happened to taking things slow? We didn’t even discuss that.

The couple at the far end are giving me evil eye, talking to themselves.

“I should have known. I should have known,” says Elio rolling his eyes and shaking his head, “all those sweet talk and promises,” and adds animated arm gestures with his voice getting choked up.

Then, just as quickly, Elio’s face expression changes, into a full display of contempt, “well, you know what? I’m so fucking glad that I _made_ you come here. That I can see who you really are.”

The way he says his words with snarl and such disdain as if he caught me with someone else in bed. Or worse, I brought a mistress with a baby to a starter wife.

Then, he grabs my tumbler and splash it over my face.

“Fuck you! Have a fan.fucking.tastic life with _her_!!” and swears in Italian and French, and spits on the floor before he storms out of the club.

I stand there, my mouth gaped in utter shock, wiping my face down with my palm.

Errr–––, what duh hell just happened??

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –yesss, by changing Charmie fic’s character names, I am trying(hoping) to glide by on _not_ doing fourth-wall break. So, the adapted Velvet’s name (for this AU) is Hal, and Douglas, respectably. Please hate-me-but-don’t-hate-me *on my knees and prayer hands in front of my chest, begging*  
> .  
> As always, Thank You for those of you who are kind enough to indulge me in this AU fic line and coming back to read each update, your time and interest. I think I said it a few times but, *right palm on my left chest* the small few of you are the reason that keeps me going on this journey. I wholeheartedly appreciate you for joining me in each and every step.  
> .  
> Wish you a marvelous rest of the week & please stay safe and healthy.  
> .  
> 


	4. Friday (D-10)_Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio is baffled about how on earth Oliver is coming back _after_ what he had done. And Marzia clearly enjoys this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied… *pathetic chibi plop* I really seriously meant to move things along by condensing this so I can count down to the next day and the following day. But I have failed. *nervous shifty eyes* and I know I said, weekly update but… but… . *putting myself voluntarily in the time-out spot in the corner* And… I hope you’d forgive me. 

**Chapter Four. Friday (D-10)_Part Three: Tangling In**

**Friday, On the Streets in NYC | Elio**

Texting Velvet out of the blue like that, knowing she just came back from her tour two days ago, was definitely something I would never do. And she agreeing to help me out in such a short notice indeed was _the_ help sent from above. Velvet’s only request was for her to have a little conversation with him, in exchange of her not asking any questions. My ultimate goal is to pass on the note, to Chiara, in the most rebellious way possible. An evidence that no sane person would do such subject-matter experiment, in this time of dating apps for fuck-boys and fuck-girls. That all these on-line match making companies, dressed in some romanticized notion of finding true love and falling in love with _the_ person of their dreams, is nothing but a front for 21st century casual sex culture. The culture stemmed from the heartbreaking belief that having an intimate sexual relationship is something one ought not to have. That developing feeling or any attachment after having sex has been deemed as un-cool thing to do for the post-modern neo everything generation. That the decades of porn culture and its easy-and-economical (almost free) access… What am I thinking? I shake the thought away. I am not writing an op-ed, am I?

As planned, I cross the street to dash away as quickly as possible. I’ll go home, type up the gist of what I did, and tomorrow I’ll be done with it. And Chiara will get my point of ‘I’m not doing this article.’ And I will be able to have a relaxing weekend, waiting for her to give me other ‘how to’ subject she wants me to do. Maybe I’ll take a train out, and get away from the city. While Oliver will think of me as this crazy bloke, chuck whatever happened as laughable and lose my number. All will be well.

Yet I can’t help but feeling a weird sensation; something that resembles mild nausea and a far distant yet keen zing in my ear. Is it about having to be _that_ _guy_ to him? Or is it because of the part that Oliver would never really know me-me? The EDM track beats from the club on repeat, at the back of my head, I brrrr out loud to somehow shake off those stupid questions. Besides, my inner thought reasons, Oliver is too confident, too self-assured for my taste. And––! I’m not really looking for a relationship anyway to begin with. That’s right, I mutter under my breath.

When I am about to cross the street, my phone buzzes. Shit, I forgot to put it back to ring. And my watch flashes [ Oliver ] on its screen. Odd––, Why am I glad? I huff under my breath. Of course I don’t answer.

.

“Elio!!”

At the back of my head, I hear the loud booming voice, from across the street. Cars are honking but it doesn’t stop Oliver from jogging across the street towards me. It’s the very moment I arrive at one-way street that I can safely hail a cab.

“Hey–,” Oliver says dotingly, with his eyebrows in full frown in concern and worry.

I walk on, ignoring him, not even looking up. Oliver steps in front of me, now walking backwards.

“Elio…, hey…,” Oliver bends his knees just enough, still walking backwards, ducks his head to make an eye contact with me. His large hands hovering over either my upper arms.

Just when his palms make contact with my clothes, I dislodge my arm from his grip harshly with a frown, “awgh, sod off,” and I cringe my face muscles resembling disgust, “––don’t touch me.”

Think, Elio. You didn’t think about this. The voice in my head hurries me, while I am looking away to make sure to avoid Oliver’s eyes. As I shift, Oliver shifts in front of me. I scoff and shift to the other side to walk on by, but his torso side-waves. Merda, he _seriously_ want to talk to me. Now, we are at a full stop. I turn my chin to the side. I quickly decide to add a little purse of my lips to show my scorn, making sure Oliver notices it. I hear him taking in an audible breath through his nose.

“Elio, will you please look at me?” he says quietly.

I roll my eyes, not looking up at him. Okay, what do I do?

Oliver curls his torso in, ducking lower a little, to look up at me, tilting his head a bit, “…please?”

I groan intentionally as if it is such a big deal for me, crossing my arms in front of my chest (yes, the classic defense gesture), while my brain is screaming ‘avoid eye contact!, avoid eye contact!’ in all caps. It’s something I realized a bit later than I had hoped; that I have a knack for pretending. I happened to stumble upon this trait of mine while I was writing for ‘How to talk your way out of traffic ticket.’ Though I haven’t tried _acting_ my way out of trouble since, I am more-than-half-assured that this unscripted pretend is working. But…, why is he not shrugging me off as some crazy hysteric gay guy he met at a bar one night?

.

**Friday, Elio’s Apartment | Elio**

/ “You’re such a brat!!” / Marzia says over the phone. And she asks whether she can come over.

“Not tonight, Marzia, I still have to get up early tomorrow,” I reply while squeezing a bit of toothpaste out of the tube.

/ “Yes, the _THIRD_ date, and he apologized?” /

I pause, holding my tooth brush, “yeah–, I don’t get it.”

/ “You must have done something to have him overlook such an outrageous behavior,” / and she adds she can’t believe Velvet agreed to his stint of ‘get-away-with-not-writing-the-article-I-hate.’

“It’s not a _stint_ ,” I pull out my toothbrush and counter her with the foam in my mouth, “you know, I need to _lose_ the guy, remember?”

/ “You didn’t experiment. You ended too quick. Ergo, Ipso facto, Colombo Oreo, stint.” / Marzia says as if she is doing a mock-debate. And I only chuff at her quirky pig Latin. She thinks being a law student, learning all those Latin terms, makes her more rebellious. If you do that in front of a judge, you will be held in contempt before you even get to your point. I once told her. And as if she can read my mind,

/ “Yeah, I know, I know, you needed a way to keep your job. Clever as always, But,” / she pauses, mulling things over, / “you called him your boyfriend way prematurely, you accused him of cheating and being shallow. On your second date.” /

“Were you hoping to see how things pan out?”

/ “Who wouldn’t? and you are getting paid to dump a guy.” /

“And who was the reason for putting me in such a tight corner?” I retort and shove the brush inside my cheek, after adding my dire wish (that I repeated the hundredth time) of whether she is ever going to stop sharing everything about her life.

/ “I’m not bashful and I don’t have anything to hide. Besides, people are going to comment about your life any ways. Why not write your own?” /

“Marzia… .”

/ “Yeah, yeah, it’s not about me having nothing else to hide, it’s about what people do to affect me. The slave and rat culture, yadi-yadi-yeah–. And what did I say?” /

“That the concept of privacy is also a product of the governing class to take advantage of working class by providing the illusion of safety and security.”

/ “That’s my journalist! Anywho, so you didn’t expect him to chase you down after you acted like a histrionic over-the-top possessive Cuckoo–.” /

“Don’t forget that I splashed his drink over his face and spat on the floor!”

/ “Hey~! That’s my move. And yet,” / Marzia says like some TV biographical film narration, / “He still asked you out for a third date. Imagine that.” /

I hum with a look, brushing the other side of my mouth.

.

**Friday, Club | Oliver**

The bartender looks at me without words and I understand that look; _why the hell aren’t you going after him?_

I ask for a piece of paper. He gives me a fresh linen cocktail napkin. I say my thanks, wiping my face and my front. For some reason, I feel glad that I’ve never been a fan of White Russian. Or else this evening would have been the very last day for these clothes. Skylar (the bartender) reaches down and rips something from under his drawer and I mutter another thanks. I flip it over in haste. Then, I reach into my pocket, quickly pull out my fountain pen, and start jotting down some words. I don’t know why I am compelled to do this but it’s at least I can do, I think to myself as I fold the piece of paper in half.

“Could you please give this to Velvet?”

The bartender looks at me with narrowed eyes. I breathe out sharply through my nose. And I pull out a 20 and repeat the question, offering the folded note again. This time, on top of the bill. The tip of his mouth quirk up on the left and he nods, before he takes it from my hand.

.

When I catch up with him, Elio is already across the street and almost a block away. It takes me a while to get him to look at me. Though seeing his pout (incredibly adorable, by the way) just makes me want to forget about everything that just happened, I know I need to find a way to get him back. I can’t lose him since DeLauers account will set me, and Tony and Thayer, up for good. Not just our pockets but my CV. At the same time, my nostalgic brain I haven’t used in a while goes, maybe he really likes me; to a point, in such a short period of time that seeing me talking to someone else, only few minutes after him giving a spectacular hand job, where it made him feel as though I’m betraying his trust. Because maybe he normally isn’t that forward. But Elio’s hand seriously was very nimble. The thrill of getting one out in the open was–– quite spectacular.

“Elio, will you please look at me?” I say to him quietly, and bow out my spine a little to search for his eyes, “…please?”

When his beautiful hazel eyes finally meet mine, I realize my assumption was true. And somehow, I am filled with pride that I, Oliver Barry, have already became Elio’s exception.

“I’m not offering any excuses. But there was nothing going on,” I begin. And Elio blinks and looks away.

I take a small step to get his eyes to look into mine, properly, “I understand that the way we were sitting gave you the impression and I should have been more careful.”

“The impression,” Elio huffs, rather pointedly, “now, tell me,” tossing a sharp glance up at my face and, “do I look like I want to be sassed? Oh,” Elio grinds his lower jaw, just so, to convey his derision, “maybe I wasn’t _American_ enough for you. _Fuck. Off_!” before he cold-shoulder-passes me, cursing something in Italian.

I take in an audible breath, squaring my jaws. DeLauers, DeLauers, I repeat to myself, as I breathe out.

“Hey… hey…,” I stride wider-than-usual steps and inch close to him. When I have Elio look at me properly, stopping him from walking away, he goes,

“She had her hand on your thigh,” and takes an inhale, measuredly.

“I know, it meant nothing to me. Nothing. Maybe I should have waited for you outside the bathroom. Or gone in with you.”

“Whatever,” Elio clicks his tongue, in a tone somewhere between ‘I don’t believe you’ and ‘I don’t care.’

“Will you give me a chance to make it up to you?”

At that, Elio just motions to walk pass me, his body language saying he doesn’t have time for this.

“Let me treat you with a breakfast,” I step in forward to stop him from yet another attempt of his from walking away.

Elio’s chocolate curls sways as he looks up. And he blinks.

“Early brunch, then. People have lunch with visiting distant relatives they don’t even like.”

.

**Friday, Elio’s Apartment | Elio**

/ “Come on~~, you must have done something for him ask you out, _again_!” /

Oh, no–, Marzia, I’m not telling you. I think to myself, rinsing my mouth.

/ “I wish I could have been there. Like a fly on the wall. I don’t know. Maybe you should have been an actor. From how you had him wrapped around your fingertips, in such a short time. You must be doing something.” /

“Or maybe he is _that_ type,” I dap the bottom half of my mouth on the towel.

/ “You think so?” /

.

**Friday, On the Streets in NYC | Elio**

“So what? are you saying I’m your distant relative or a person you meet for business who you don’t really care?” Nice one, Elio, the voice in my head says with a grin.

“You know what I mean,” Oliver is practically smiling ear-to-ear, knowing that he just hooked me back in, “something casual and relaxed. Well, heck, why don’t I cook you myself, then, mhmm? I don’t cook for visiting distant relatives or a person I meet for business.”

“Oliver Barry, are you asking me to come over to your place?”

“Yes, I am, and I don’t do that often, just so you know. And I shall cook some wonderful brunch for us,” says Oliver as if he is announcing some grand plan, “so, what do you say?”

.

**Friday, Elio’s Apartment | Elio**

/ “So what did you say?” / Marzia asks as I thread my legs under the sheet.

“Marzia, I need my beauty sleep,” I breathe, and I tell her Oliver almost convinced me to meet him at the farmer’s market, “I really need some time in the morning to pretty up, remember?” and I yawn. And I hear Marzia parrot back what I just said in Italian, getting my sarcasm. 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ clarification ]  
> I am aware that things like this don’t need to be spelled out. Yet, I’ve learned that sometimes me assuming that all is well and stuff that I choose not to explicitly mention will be conveyed are also a form of hopeful (sometimes naïve and often too idealistic) assumption. So, here it goes;  
> Bringing in _Velvet_ into this AU is purely from my personal self-indulgence of loving her so so much as a character, nothing else. A sincere homage to the creator via my drabble. Not for recognition nor any-and-every possible reasons people might consider that I’m doing. (oh, yes, I am saying, “I won’t try to read your mind, so let us not try. And why don’t we communicate instead?” hahaha *defeated sigh* I know… I know, it can come across as passive aggressive but that is not my tone, at all. *scout’s honor* *kids’ cartoon giggle*) And… thank you for those who understand my intent 'as is' without distortion. *hat tip*  
> .  
> Thank \You/ for reading, your time and interest.  
> Do please feel free to talk to me, as always ONLY if you wish, about this AU down in the comments; what you like to read, con-crits, questions, clarifications, and so on.  
> Please, yes DO please, stay safe and healthy: mind, body, and soul.  
> 


	5. Saturday (D-9)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having brunch over at Oliver's place. Elio devises many plans beforehand but he finds himself in a situation that he cannot wiggle himself out, as easily he had planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehrr… uhm… my whole conundrum of being a transcriber is that so called AU fics I post here as a drabble are given to me in different ways. (those very few who are familiar with me, you already know I’m weird. For those who are not, I’ve learned that I bring in four different parts of me for this journey. [a gist] this conscious me is what I came to call “ _transcriber_.” Anywho… where was I? ah! yes–) This AU began, namely before the uh... *kuh hum* whole total purge, as in a hope that I’d be able to upload something light and fun, unlike my usual other ones. (So, therefore, the-the reason of reinstating this multichapter fic.) I buckled down to make the story _move along_ , yet again, counting down the days but… but… *long defeated sigh* *shoulder sagging* *bags under my eyes* This chapter involved more than one sensory input. And... and… the mental acrobatics this transcriber-me goes through is sometimes quite _not-nice_. [translation] long-arse, descriptive read; lots adapted in from the book-verse. *dumping out the chest* You have been warned–– *quickly disappearing behind the neighbor’s big tall fir tree*   
> 

**Chapter 5. Saturday (D-9)**

**Saturday | Elio**

Though the word ‘pretty up’ meant absolutely nothing, it somehow has this inexplicable cling to it. At least, that’s how I felt the whole morning. I don’t remember the last time I am this indecisive of what I am going to wear. It takes me way longer than I originally planned. All the while I’m running all the possible scenario of how I am going to react and pour a bucket of ice over his face. Wait, is this what criminals do?

I normally don’t eat breakfast, of any kind. Maybe grab a bagel if there is one nearby. But no. Ever since I moved here, I found no reason to try and replace how my life was back in Italy. Mafalda still insists on sending me care packages. Will you be visiting this summer? Err… I don’t know yet. You are working too hard. Do you still play? Not just piano, guitar, she dragged the ‘r’ before she said, I miss you playing. I cannot help but to sigh under my breath. Things are different. I am different.

I thought they were happy. After all, my parents have been married for two decades before they one day decided to end their chapter. I fill my lungs slowly. Hmm. And I hear my phone ring. I sideglance it; it’s Marzia. I let it ring. When I come back, the phone rings again. I glance at it the second time and decide not to pick up. And a few seconds later, the device tings.

\ “HELP! Boss _finally_ decided to fire the guy. Weekends open! I negotiated time and a half & 40 of the tip.” \

I huff out a snort. It’s the same guy who bailed on Thursday. I find myself shaking my head. This, tug-of-war thing, has been going on for a while. Between the general manager and this jazz pianist. He hates people calling him jazz pianist. He always insists on “jazz musician,” I remember Marzia grumbling about him; her fingers air quoting with her making mocking face. But the GM didn’t bring herself to find a better replacement. I’ve never met the guy but, from what I can gather, he had quite the following. Yet, I never took time to ask anything further, or deeper, about why things have been the way they’ve been. Maybe, subconsciously, I liked being needed like this. Especially, Marzia being involved.

.

I pass by the local flower shop that reminded me of the one down in B. It’s completely different from the old-world-ask feel of the shop my mother used to buy fresh flowers from. But for some reason, only this place, of all the flower shops I walk by in the city of New York, takes me back there. Every time. I briefly consider buying a bouquet of flowers. Right, it’ll be too corny. And I redirect my steps to a confectionary shop. I grab two bottles of house bottled Italian soda; made freshly and exclusively from the local fruits. I debate whether getting a box of chocolate that goes well with hard liquor. It’d be a good gift, I mull the thought. But I dismiss it away as it may indicate a bit more of a romantic gesture. Because I am unquestionably to _lose_ the guy. What a mission.

Once I get out of the uber, I am holding a box of fresh cornetti on my left hand. At the curled end of my third and fourth finger, a craft paper bag loop hangs nestling two glass bottles. He is indeed in the advertising industry. This place costs a fortune, I think to myself walking into the building.

I check in with the concierge and my name is in the visitor’s list. The male attendant with dark purple eyeliner mutters something, ‘huh, it’s unusual.’

“Pardon?”

He smiles and shakes his head, then offers his open hand towards the elevator I should use, while expertly typing something on the keyboard. When I tilt my head a little, he bids me, ‘good day.’ It looks as though you need a special code to get in. Or maybe a keycard? When the elevator door quietly thud shuts in pneumonic motion, I recognize the muzac: Vivaldi. With my gaze lowered far in front of the other side of the corner, I get lost in the melody of crisp and pleasant notes. Soon the elevator whirls quietly as it slows and tings. The car softly comes to a stop. As I hear the door glide open, I lift my gaze. Immediately, I am taken a back. A blink.

I guess I expected it to have a hall way, like the usual multi-residential buildings in New York. It turns out the elevator opens straight to his place. Foyer? By the delicious smell wafting up, I think I am in the right place... but… . I lean my head and torso, as if I’m peering in, a bit awkward and feeling out of place. From the first glance, the interior is modern but not over the top. Nothing opulent or ritzy-glitzy. It looks like a bachelor pad. A blink once more, and a swallow before I take a step in, a little cautiously.

From the left, I see Oliver walking towards me, wiping his hands on the black apron. Bare feet, well-ironed linen slacks, billowy blue shirt, two top buttons neatly undone, a star of David right on the thatch of his golden fuzz. With the widest smile ever, he mutters under his breath, “I was beginning to wonder–,” quietly. I gather he is talking to himself.

He stands a couple steps in front of me. Just looking at me. My gaze draws a sheepish line, as I lift my chin slowly. Oliver’s jaw laxes and I can tell he is glad to see me. I catch his gaze floating over my lips. And he glides his lazed jaw a little to the left, with his mouth softly parted: only just. Even from here, I can peek in his moist tongue being gently rolled up to touch the back of his front teeth. Oh, I know that look.

“Glad you made it,” Oliver finally says, his throat bobbing vertically, ever so perfectly.

“Am I late?”

Oliver just shakes his head, lightly, twice, “please,” then he offers his open palm, “make your self at home.”

I lift my hand and _present_ the goodies I brought. Oliver’s eyes drop to my extended grip, and then up at my face. Huh, I wonder, You didn’t expect me to bring anything, did you? But I don’t say them out loud. He gives me a light head-dip and takes the box and the bag.

“These are perfect,” Oliver says, with a wide smile, “how about I warm these…?”

“Cornetti,” I tell him and he goes, ahh––.

“Urhm… shoes on or off?” I ask.

“Whatever you feel comfortable,” and he extends his other arm, swiveling in such classy olden time gentility-ask gesture, counterclockwise. I don’t think he is doing this on purpose. It’s just his usual manner. I huff a short exhale through my nose and step in. I feel his large palm land, just below my scapulae.

“It’ll be just another 5 minutes,” he adds once I arrived at what appears to be a greeting/living room area.

I see a digital baby grand on the corner. Mahogany wood in gloss cherry black. I thread out my shoulder bag, up and over my head. I look at him without words, asking where I should put my things. Oliver gestures with a light nonchalant hand motion: anywhere is fine.

“Sparkling or still?”

And I go, mhm?, with my eye brows.

His mouth makes a shape and lifts his index finger before he quickly disappears into the kitchen. The man can stride, I think to myself. I turn my head to the other side and notice a Bloomberg terminal: system on but monitors off. My cheeks feel a soundless whoosh of change in the air; subtle but Oliver is indeed tall and sturdy. He came back with two glass bottles. One in each hand.

“Sparkling,” he lifts his hand accordingly, “or still?”

And I go, ‘ah––,’ and instead of answering with words, I reach out to grab the still. As soon as I begin the motion, I hear him say with a smile, “I was hoping you’d say that.”

Just like at the youth center, Oliver doesn’t let go of the bottle. And we do a light tug-of-war. Our gaze locked on each other, Oliver grinning ear-to-ear. I roll my eyes with a playful scoff is when he gives and lets go of his grip.

“Anything I can do to help?”

“No~~,” Oliver drawls, “you, my dear sir, is a guest,” and tips his chin up a little, before he walks away to the kitchen.

And I feel a strange something–like a water glider skipping a soundless delicate ripple, right in my chest.

.

Oliver only took five more minutes before he comes back with a whole fair. Al fresco, Elio, he said in perfect Italian. Handful and armfuls at a time, he brings out plates after plates. As if Oliver prepared for four highly active athletes. Mafalda would have loved him, I think to myself. Monte Cristo with powdered sugar, scrambled eggs and bacons, fresh fruits, soft boiled eggs, Belgian waffles, sausage gravy with biscuits. I have trouble hiding my mouth watering. But I decide only to eat fruits and sip on iced Italian soda.

“What’s wrong?”

I pretend to hide my grimace with a closed mouth smile, “no, this is great.”

Oliver pauses, “you don’t eat meat,” and he sighs quietly to himself. And he quickly takes the plate of sausage gravy, bacon, and Monte Cristo away to the kitchen. I raise my hand to say it’s alright but his long legs carry him inside already too fast, too quick. Damn, it was one of the moves I was going to pull to _lose_ him. I shake my head. A minute or two later, I see him carry a bowl of muesli in his left and a yogurt on his right.

“I got some chopped nuts, if you don’t like granola,” says Oliver, tossing the thumb of his lightly clenched fist over his shoulder. I shake my head with a small smile.

When the initial shock of how much Oliver fussed over passed, Oliver settled a little, we are sitting by the corner of his large rectangle table.

I grab a soft boiled egg and Oliver just looks at me.

“You no like eggs, Oliver?” I say it with Italian accent.

With a touch of genuine embarrassment, he consents, only to admit which he never bothered to conceal, that he doesn’t know how to open a soft-boiled egg. I let out a soft acknowledgement of ‘ahh–.’ And I reach out my hand and grab an egg, holding his gaze,

“Lasci fare a me.”

Oliver’s eyes glint with something all too apparent. Yet I don’t say or mention anything to it. I huff lightly through my nose before I drop my gaze. And I crack open the top of his by tapping it with the flat of the teaspoon. I had never done this for anyone else in my life, and yet here I am, making certain that not a speck of the shell fall into his egg. Through my peripheral vision, I can see Oliver looks quite happy about this whole thing. I push his eggcup, knowing he hasn’t looked away, intentionally slow towards him. Leaning in just right. I hear him subdue a rumble from his throat. Just as I expected, I am greeted with his aroused face when I draw up my gaze to his. Oliver’s warm breath ghosts over my face and I try my absolute best not to smile wide.

.

**Saturday, Patio | Oliver**

I very nearly kissed him. Long brown lashes lifting up and his green hazel eyes looking at me, this close. Awft, fuck, that lips. I subdue a moan gurgling up my throat. Just barely. But I promised that I will make up to him and– and– even though this is a bet, (Delauers! Delauers!) he and I are never going to be hit-it and leave-it. I lick my lips, without giving an inch. I hear him chuff under his breath before he pulls his upper body upright, in slow increments. Audibly filling my lungs, I go, “shall we?”

Elio just nods. And I grab my spoon and dip it into the carefully opened soft boiled egg and take a good spoonful. Oh. My. God. The taste. Over-easy can never match this.

“forse un secondo?” Elio says with a little amusement.

“Yes, please,” I tell him eagerly.

And just like that, I get to bask in Elio break-open another soft boiled egg for me. Long lithe pianist fingers. His movement is so at ease and so natural.

.

I feel like I am transported to somewhere only kindred spirits freely share their thoughts and opinions without a fear of judgement or a worry of a possibility of offending the company. Just like the night we had the pizza, and just like yesterday evening at the French restaurant, we talk about anything and everything: unhindered, unconstrained.

“Wittgenstein who was also a jew,” Elio goes, “on the other hand, used epigrams, taking in impressionistic approach that ended up revolutionizing philosophy of mathematics,” after the topic of why philosophy is so hard for many laypeople to consume. Then, the conversation goes how Schopenhauer, for instance, tells you how to commit suicide by giving step-by-step epistles.

“And he explains it in a very German ‘und nun mach sein–’,” Elio says putting on German accent.

“Gosh––, where were you when I was in college?”

“What do you mean?” he tosses back, still laughing with me.

“I would have killed to have someone like you to bounce the idea like this. It was only in my last year of graduate studies I heard of Athanasius Kircher, Giuseppe Belli and Paul Celan. And here you are. More familiar with the subject than my advising professors.”

“…someone like me?”

“Yeah,” I reply.

Elio pauses a beat, bringing his gently curled in hand to his lips–his gaze on mine.

“What kind of person is that?”

I cannot help but to chuff. Oh, he is so adorable. Let this mid-morning never end. Let him speak on perpetual replay play forever. I don’t think I’m asking for much. Instead of answering his rhetorical question,

“Do I sense a hint of habit?”

“mhm~?”

“You seem to keep putting yourself down.”

Elio blinks. And he shrugs his shoulders. Did I sound like I was criticizing him? I see him mulling the thought over in his head, all the while _still_ holding my gaze. Elio fills his lungs, quietly.

“It’s not that. Call me pedantic but, the notion of knowing something or anything is illusory at best. So the more I read and the more I think I know, the more I realize how much I don’t know. I suppose.”

“Say something stupid,” I blurt out.

“What? why?”

“Come on, quick,” I tell him, feeling so animated, “say, ‘I hate New Yorkers,’ or, or ‘it smells here.’ Something mundane. Something nonsensical. Something that doesn’t mean anything.”

Elio narrows his eyes with a genuine curiosity and surprise all mixed together. As if he is asking and wondering at the same time.

“Because––, so I can know you are _real_. That you are not some perfect mirage I conjured out of thin air. That you are flesh-and-blood. Like I am.”

To that, Elio’s jaw laxes and he takes an inaudible gasp.

Time slows. He is waiting for me to say something. He is staring at me. Neither of us cast a glance nor looking away. In the silence of the moment, we are surrendering to something I’ve never expected. Ever.

I am madly and unequivocally falling in love with him.

.

**Saturday, Oliver’s place | Elio**

I don’t remember exactly when or which moment. But I now am walking back and forth from Oliver’s spacious patio to his kitchen, bussing back the overly prepared brunch. For some reason, he insists on me not coming into his kitchen. Oliver even pulls out his oven mitt that says ‘Kindly get the fuck out, it’s my kitchen.’ Yet I insist bringing in the plates and utensils and such.

“I am very good at doing dishes,” I offer.

“Nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh,” Oliver retorts, “you see this?” and he extends his open palm, “this is the marvel of the human invention. It’s called ‘dishwasher’.”

I laugh with him, shaking my head. And it doesn’t take me long to know that Oliver is very meticulous and very well-organized. He offers me to brew an after-the-meal espresso and I only need a nod. As if we’ve been doing this together for a very long time, I find myself cocooned in a familiarity I’ve never expected. At the back of my head, espresso machine whirs and I ask him about how he come to own the Bloomberg terminal.

“I thought you are in advertising,” I tease him.

“I am,” Oliver replies, closing the cupboard, “I won it.”

“A contest?”

Oliver simply shakes his head first with a smile, before he says, “poker.”

And he tells me that it’s about a year-old and adds it was brand spankin’ new with the full twelve months subscription.

“It was a pretty good schadenfreude moment when I won it.”

“So the guy couldn’t pay up?”

Oliver shakes his head.

“How generous of you,” I tease him more.

Then, we carry on putting things away, gliding each other by, without saying too much about in what container to where type of detail. But about other subjects Oliver seems to want to talk about as he did at the patio, less than a half an hour ago. He pre-rinces the plates and serving spoons, hands them over one by one. And I place them accordingly in his dish washer. Oliver gets out a new tray for espresso, I accidently almost bump into him.

“Oops,” pulling my torso back a bit as I chuff a series of awkward laughs.

Oliver breathes out his subdued groan. So I look at him, with a light tilt of my head.

“You are making things very difficult for me.”

“What do you mean?”

Another audible measured sigh escapes from him. Ohhhh––. Yet, I pretend that I don’t know what I’m talking about.

“Why am I making things difficult?”

I know my cheeks are flushed but it doesn’t matter to me. My heart is beating so fast and yet I am feeling calm, my head feeling clearer than ever.

“Because I said–”

“You said you will respect me,” I finish the sentence for him.

He hums low, firmly: once. To that, I fill my lungs slow.

“What are you saying?” swiftly, I toss a dare.

He chuffs once through his nose, with the look: you _know_ what I’m saying. I don’t break my stare.

“I’m not going to pretend it hasn’t crossed my mind.”

I shrug, “I’d be the last to know.”

Oliver’s head leans to the right with a drawn out groan, rolling his eyes.

“Well, it has. There!”

Of course, I know he knows that I know that _it_ has crossed his mind. From the very first day we met, he has been undressing me with his eyes. And! I gave him an unforgettable handy at the ally. Yet, for some reason, I cannot help myself from playing ‘here-catch-me, oh-no-oops-not-yet.’ I’ve never been such a type. On top of that, I need to _lose the guy_. But I’m having so much fun. What’s wrong with me?

“Why are you upset?” I feign a stammer, making sure my face expression marks the traditional taken-aback look.

To my surprise, without offering any proper answer, Oliver steps forward and takes hold of my face with both of his hands and presses his lips over mine.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Just-in-case Chapter Details ]  
> –cornetti: _pl_. of cornetto; either _vuoto_ (empty) or filled with sweet fillings such as jams, cream, chocolate, etc. It is croissant’s richer and sweeter cousin. In northern Italy, these are sometimes called brioche. Some parts in south, these are served split open in half, stuffed in gelato. There is a branded frozen dessert cone by _Unlilever_ , as well. Since Elio is from northern part of Italy, as indicated in the opening caption of CMBYN ‘ _somewhere in northern Italy_ ’ (yes, I’m being factitious. hehehe), Elio would be very familiar with cornetti.  
> –Suzuki Digital baby grand: approx. $3K for manufactured line; as there is no gloss cherry black offered as a selection, I’m implying a custom-made.  
> –Bloomberg terminal: yearly subscription of $24,000.  
> –Lasci fare a me: (from the book-verse) "leave it to me," forse un secondo: (a spin on "perhaps a third?" from the book verse) "maybe another"  
> –schadenfreude: [Deutsch] an experience of a complex emotion (sympathy+joy+self-satisfaction) that comes from witnessing or learning of another’s misfortune, troubles, humiliation, or failures.  
> .  
> [ Help ] ehrrmm… I kinda sorta decided to have _Velvet_ play a bigger role. The adaptation slash, and-or expansion of her mainly surrounds her talent as a dancer (performer) more than anything, not extensively though, without crossing the scrimmage of Charmie-fandom. Or the fourth-wall break. Any objections or suggestions?   
> ; uhmm… on that little side bar…. I uh… I’m… *sigh*  
> I just don’t know these two brilliant actor/performers enough to spin an AU. Besides, my stubborn personal creed doesn’t (never-ever) allow me to dare such feat, as I am not equipped to weave out a decent RPF drabbles. The bare-bone honesty. Scout’s honor.  
> .  
> As always, Thank \you/ for reading, your time and interest.   
> Please stay safe and healthy: mind, body, and soul.  
> 


	6. Sunday (D-8)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Advertising exec!_Oliver in man-up mode and Journalist!_Elio tries his absolute best to ward off Oliver. But we all know it’s futile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> non-linear time line of weekend

**Chapter 6. Sunday (D-8)**

“Do I look like a damsel in distress??” Elio spits out the words, almost yelling, at me.

.

**Rewind | Saturday | Oliver**

It might have been my imagination; about the subtle way Elio was flirting back sitting out at the patio under the sun. Having one of those good sunny day in New York, with a person who is turning out to be a great company, through and through, was a quite difficult thing for me. Because of something hot and searing kept bubbling inside of me. Not just because Elio was an extremely good company but what I could only describe as the lustful desire (that doesn’t need any helping hand) didn't seem to give me a break. At some point, I just wanted to fuckitall and simply gush out what I was feeling at each moment out to him unfiltered. Cheesy much? I push the thought away. He probably wasn’t doing it on purpose but the way Elio became so flustered, I couldn’t help myself any longer. Awgh, hell. So you are going all out and having your way, aren't you? What about the promise you made about respecting Elio? mhm?

I moan into his mouth. And we lap each other’s tongue and lips, incredibly in sync; at the right beat, in just a right sequence. I snake my hand, my palm flat against the small of his back and draw a broad line up along his spine, making his body arch forward flush against mine. Elio lets me, lifting his arms ever so. And I feel his bent elbows land on my shoulder, right one first then left. The way he cups the back of my head as his fingertips begin to gently massage my scalp there makes me breathe him in. Elio’s left palm deftly on top of my head, caressing the way no one ever has done, I shudder. The plushness of his lips, the wetness of his tongue, the way Elio lulls his tongue, the way his hand moves on my skin, and the freshly brewed aroma of espresso filling the air––, everything is perfect.

I don’t know how long we have been at this, standing in the middle of the kitchen. I don’t want him to pull away. Please don’t. But I feel him gently pulling away. No…, please don’t–. My palm on the Elio’s back involuntarily splays further on him. His lips wave into a small smile. Yes, I know you are letting me but I’m not done yet. Elio leisurely sucks my upper lip before our lips finally separate and he peppers his lips so languidly at the corner of my lips. I shudder out an extended exhale. Before I realize it Elio nuzzles his cheek against mine and, to my absolute delight, I feel a small huff of his hot breath right between my ear and my jaw. Ever so enchantingly, Elio whispers “see? I’m like you, Oliver. Flesh and blood,” and a tiny lick on the flesh there sends a jolt throughout my body.

Fuuccckkkk–––

Before I get a chance to recover from it, I feel his pelvis shift leaning close to my already bulging base. Indeed–, flesh and blood.

I don’t know why I ever worried out the possibility of losing Elio. Losing a chance to pitch DeLauers account. As I walk us towards the living room, Elio fastens his lips on my neck, licking and nibbling and sucking at the pulse there, moaning ever so so low. I can’t get us to the sofa fast enough.

“Oof––,” Elio smiles wide, as we plop on the couch.

I climb over him, my hands pressing on either side of gorgeous head. _God––, you are absolutely stunning,_ I want to tell him. Elio looks up at me, his cheeks flushed, his lips kiss-swollen pink. I stroke through his loose curls. And that earns me his closed lip smile. When I lean down to recapture his lips, Elio tips his head up and tugs at my open collar. Our hips locked, I rub against him. Elio breathes me in.

What breaks the spell is the ring of my cell. I recognize it immediately as it was a customized for specific purpose. And I groan; it’s business. I feel Elio’s lips smile. But I don’t stop kissing him. _We_ don’t stop. I feel his eager hand snaking under and through my open collar. I flip over my wrist to reject the call so it’ll go to voice mail. My wrist unit blips. Then, immediately, the same ring tone begins. _Damn it!_

When I try to detach my lips from him, Elio’s head rises, his lips chasing after mine. I look at my wrist, his moist lips land on the corner of my mouth. Yup, business. Fuck, fuck, fuck. When I turn my head back to him, I find something I’ve never seen in my life. His green hazel eyes a little pinned out, his cheeks a little flushed, “let it ring,” Elio whispers ever so softly.

The way he looks at me is… indescribable. The smart watch rings on, while I have my upper body weight propped up on my extended arms, I debate so ferociously. In a split second, something in the way he holds my gaze shifts; very subtly. As if Elio knew all along, I won’t be able to resist answering the call. His magnificent eyes blink calmly.

“I’m sorry–,” I let out a ragged breath and I hear Elio sucks in an audible breath through his nose.

Shit, it’s one of the long retainer accounts. Uhm… usually, she calls Thayer. I mouth ‘sorry’ again, to Elio. It’s the assistant. She introduces herself as Dania and I soon find out Gabriella with whom we have been in correspondence is on her vacation and she is filling in for her, temporarily.

“(I’m sorry, Dania, no, no, my Portuguese is not good. Can you please tell me again?)”

Elio ducks his head while I scramble in half Spanish and gobbledygook mixture of words. Brazilian Portuguese is like speaking European French in Ontario. And I see Elio walking to the other couch and grabs his messenger bag. I mouth, ‘no, no, please stay.’

“(ehrrr––, yes, I know, it’s my Portuguese, yes, the next phase of the campaign is scheduled on, no, no, next phase–).”

Elio grabs a peach from the bowl on the counter. In his grip, he run the pad of his thumb on its skin. I don’t understand why that simple gesture looks so sensual. Am I imagining it? Elio takes a slow bite. A streak of juice draws a line at the edge of his lips. He wipes it with the back of his sleeves, just at his wrist. So nonchalant. Incredibly nonplused. The way his cheek bulges looks so cute. At the same time, I’m surprised at myself on being able to take all of those things in while I’m still struggling to get my point across to the caller on the other side. My struggle continues for a few more moment. And to my astonishment, Elio offers his open palm for my phone and gestures me to hand it over. Then he asks quietly, “what are you trying to say?”

My eyes does this thing when a person is surprised: one look at his hand, then his eyes. I probably look so stupid. I am flustered enough that I glaze over this device having a ‘mute’ button and stupidly cover the bottom of my cell, with a look of confusion. To that, Elio gestures his casually unfurled fingers of open palm again. _Hand it over_. So, I keep the heel of my palm where it is and tell Elio what I want this new assistant to know.

Elio tips his head in acknowledgement and with a soft expression of ‘got it’ on his face, as I hand the phone to him. And he goes in full fluency; “(Hello, yes, Hi, Oliver wants to know what your–).” That’s as far as my ears register. In such comfort, with such ease, Elio carries on the conversation. I hear him chuckle and I can tell Dania on the other side understood what I was trying to say.

“(yes, that is correct),” confirms Elio walking towards the elevator, carrying on a conversation, laughing and summarizing again. I think Dania is repeating back what Elio just said.

I follow him, two steps behind. He is leaving. Why is he leaving?

Elio tosses something in Portuguese and he breaks out into a laugh; the one when someone has reacted so well to your joke. I see his pianist hand form a soft clench and it presses the button, with the back of his knuckle. I mouth, ‘where are you going?’

“(of course, he and his team will surely be able to deliver),” assures Elio, as the elevator door glides open, looking up at me with a casual side glance. ‘You know I’m still talking,’ written all over his face.

“(yes, my pleasure, you as well),” Elio simply walks in and swivels around. Just like that, he ends the call and he tosses the phone, coolly.

“Elio–, where are you––??” I ask, catching my phone into my grip. Before I can finish my question, the elevator door glide-shuts and I see Elio salutes with his two fingers; a light tap at his forehead with a half-eaten peach in his hand and says, “(Later)!”

I don’t understand why I didn’t reach my hand out to stop the door from shutting. I thumb my phone and press it against my ear; Elio doesn’t pick up. So, I quickly hurry my feet to the stair access on the other side of my apartment.

*

**Saturday, Elevator_going down | Elio**

The face.

I never thought I’d be seeing Oliver being ruffled in that way. His ice blue eyes, his golden locks–. I fill my lungs fully as I feel the elevator slows to the ground level. The concierge guys with purple eyeliner looks up with a surprise. I just dip my head as I walk out of the building. As I turn right to get to the nearest subway station, I hear–

“Elio Perlman!” at the back of my head, Oliver catching his breath. I shut my eyes close. How gorgeous his voice is. Even projected out loud in the middle of the street. God–, I’m hopeless.

“Jesus,” I stammer, “how––??” I turn around pivoting on my soles, genuinely startled.

“Stairs,” Oliver tosses the word in ‘that’s not that important’ way and takes in a short breath, “I run every day,” and he fills his lungs all the way, “where are you hurrying off to?”

The flushed face, a wide smile, a mountain of man, billowy blue shirt, two top buttons undone, his Star of David glinting by the sun light, his equipment still bulging. So he is not bashful. I huff through my nose and take a couple of steps away from the building entrance. And Oliver follows me, closing the distance, casually. When I turn around, Oliver strides his last step in towards me and we are standing almost too close for the public. His fingertips stroke my hands into his grip. I click my tongue, feeling my cheeks getting flushed. Oliver leans in and whispers low with his rumbling voice,

“Come back up with me, we were just getting started,” and lays a soft kiss on my skin between my ear and the neck.

I try my best to subdue my shiver but my body betrays me. I screw my eyes shut and moan out the breath. I hear Oliver chuckling low, softly against my skin.

“Mhm…,” with long extended sigh, “some of us has to work,” and I lean back my torso, separating from him.

.

**Saturday_Bar | Elio**

“It’s not one of your romance novel, Marzia,” I shake my head as she is so eager.

“What? can a girl dream?” she says with the point side-eyes, “–and he pursued me to the end of my void I never knew I could go–.”

“And here I thought your heart is set on becoming a DA,” I toss with a little cheerful snigger, “besides, men are not like that. Regardless of your sexuality.”

“You always have a way to ruin my fun, don’t you? Joy-killer–,” Marzia slaps me playfully with her rag, “it’s not every day I get to hear about your dating life.”

What dating life? I want to retort. Because since Michel–

“Maybe you should relax and chill about your _privacy_ ,” and she does air-quote, mockingly, “and let your best friend in on your life a bit more.”

“Why don’t we move in and share the kitchen and the living room?”

To that, Marzia does this wide-eye shock look with ‘huh,’ not forgetting to add the louder-than-usual click of her tongue.

“Don’t give me ideas,” and there is a voice calling her name from the back.

She comes back out with a plate, “Drake really likes you.”

I huff my chuckles under my breath and mouth ‘thank you’ to her.

“So, Oliver didn’t say anything?”

I shake my head, as I leaf through my burger from the top bun. No pickles, good. Because his work-buddy Thayer called him and that was how I was able to get away from him. I think it was a great save. Because if Oliver kept it up, I’d probably went up with him. Forgetting about my responsibilities.

.

Tonight, the whole bar is standing only; it’s just one of those weekend. More beers, cocktails, and the cup-thing of fingerfood and the drinks-in-one GM implemented. For some reason, all the requested songs are either rock-n-roll or metal. It started with _Kiss_ by Prince. I knew it was a kind of dare but this crowd never had me so I carry on. And I overhear Marzia talking to her coworker of me having an absolute pitch. “And where did you say you found him? Julliard?” Marzia scoffs with a knowing smile, with a look, ‘why don’t you ask him?’ By the second hour, GM brings out the mic and the place turns into a karaoke floor. At each break, I carry out my quest to be one of those clingy and obsessive date by texting, ‘what are you going?’, ‘do you miss me?’, ‘why aren’t you texting me back?’ Fully knowing Oliver’d be in the air or doing whatever he said he has to do. I even dial his number and just hang up as soon as the line connects.

.

When I finished the last song, a guy who appears to have a bit too much to drink comes over and starts to harass me. I duck my head to avoid any confrontation. But the dude becomes handsy and I swat his hand away. Marzia catches what’s going on and urgently taps the upper arm of the other bartender. This place doesn’t get this chaotic but it must be the night.

“Please get your hands off me,” I remark firmly.

“What~? whatcha gonna do, you little puppet?” the drunk guy mocks.

I see the go-to crowd control guy (formal MMA fighter who found zen; here we call him RJ) walking over so I take a side-step towards the other corner of the stage.

“Come on~, where do yuh think yur goin’?”

I roll my shoulder so I can shrug off his clammy hand.

“Hey, he says No,” says the low booming voice.

Oliver–

“This gentleman is going to escort you out,” says Oliver, calmly and firmly.

“No, no, no, no, I pay for drinks with my own fucking money. You can’t tell me to go.”

The guy chests up and challenges Oliver. And all I can think in that moment is how…? When––??

“What? is he your squeeze?”

Oliver huffs, his gaze turning merciless; the one that looks calm in the surface but everyone around you can tell you just press the wrong button. That look. And he simply gestures his hand for the drunkard to get closer. Dismissive and curt. As the dude expectedly gets close, Oliver pulls his chin a little to his chest and locks his eyes with the guy.

“–yeah,” the dude says in slurred tongue, “so what?”

Oliver breathes out slow, squaring his jaw, “see here?” he pauses, his murderous gaze locked solid on the guy, “I got at least six inches on you. What?” and Oliver flashes disgust over his lips and cringe of his nose as he guesses, “60 pounds? Maybe?” his upper lip curls upward, distinctly.

_Go ahead, I fucking dare you._

The guy flinches first but goes “nurhhh–––,” waving his flimsy hand to tell Oliver off with delayed motion, “yuh got nuthin’ on me,” and does slobbery raspberry at Oliver’s face. Oliver runs his soft clenched knuckle over his lower jaw and follows after the guy as he is being escorted out.

Oliver and RJ exchange some words before they come back inside.

“Wow…, that happened?” Marzia retorts with a stunned look on her face.

When she sees Oliver walking back in after the two does the guy handshake/fistbump/forearm thing, she goes, “is that…?”

I just nod. And I see her mouth a long and overly exaggerated, ‘wowza.’ In my head, I’m spinning out of control trying to find a way to use this occasion on my advantage to _lose_ Oliver. I see him walking towards me with a soft smile, while he squeezes and releases both his fists to get his anger or adrenaline off his body.

“You okay?” Oliver asks dotingly.

I scoff, “me okay??”

Oliver’s face changes to a complete bewilderment.

“Hi, I’m Marzia,” Marzia can’t help herself, “it’ll take forever for Elio to introduce me to you.”

“Yes, Hi, Marzia, Oliver,” and Oliver dips his head lightly, offering his large hand, “Oliver Barry.”

Marzia swoons, “it’s very nice to meet you.”

I exaggerate out another scoff; this time dropping my lower jaw, “now her too?” And I make sure to swear under my breath, telling Marzia in Italian that I’m outta here, then I pass by him.

“It’s like waiting for democracy to work,” Marzia quips.

And to that, Oliver makes a ‘tell me about it’ expression to her and excuses himself to follow behind me.

“Elio!! Hey–,” Oliver catches up with me, taking hold of my upper arm.

“What the hell was that??”

Oliver looks at me, totally confused.

“Why did you defend me? and when did you get back to New York? I thought you were going to DC for business? Or were you lying? And what was that with Marzia? Huh? You just met her and you–, you–, just jump right into flirting with her??”

**Streets, Outside the Bar, Saturday | Oliver**

“Do I look like a damsel in distress??” Elio spits out the words, almost yelling, at me.

Elio is snarling; the way he enunciates his words is full of condescension and revulsion.

“Elio–, would you please slow down?” I say to him evenly.

“You don’t even call or text me back, and– and– you appear out of nowhere at where I work and step in like some sort of white knight! What the fuck are you trying to do?”

What–? Who is _this_ guy? What did I do that was so wrong for him to react this way? What happened to the Elio from this brunch?

“The guy was drunk and was harassing you.”

“And you thought I wasn’t capable of defending myself?”

“That’s not–, I didn’t mean–,” I try to calm him.

Elio goes on venting his fury (I don’t know whether I deserve it from the first place), telling me that RJ was already on his way to get the situation on the control, that it wasn’t my place to intervene as I did.

“Listen–, Elio, can we please talk someplace…?”

“What?? now I’m embarrassing you? Am I making a scene? Is that what you are telling me? Why did you even come here?”

“Good grief, why did I even come here?” I don’t know why I am reacting like this, “fucckkk, why do you think I came here?”

Elio’s mouth opens to say something but my patience has snapped in half already so I cut in, “I came here to be with You!!”

Elio pauses, his lower jaw falling open. _Finally–_

“It’s as simple as that,” I continue with a normal tone, and I take in a breath, “I came. here. to be with You–. Just that–.”

Elio stands there and simply regards me. I can tell his heaving chest starts to slow to normal.

“Proximity is a good thing regardless of how someone feels about you. Or don’t,” a bit somber but it’s the truth, “And I really had to go down to DC to take care of some business. Before that, I'd normaly go see my folks during weekends. And no, I did get your messages. When I tried to pick up, the call ended and I was out of range or something.”

Elio pushes his tongue over on his cheek.

“Just because I smile and being friendly don’t mean I’m flirting with them.”

To that, Elio crosses his arms in front of his chest and grumbles under his breath.

_So adorable._

.

**Sunday | Elio**

“Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”

I know it was a stupid question but I still feel like I owe her. When I arrive, it’s Hal who greets me. His over-sized top billowing against his slender form as he moves around the house. From the looks of it, he just showered. Regardless of what people perceive, Hal is a great dancer. He practice like a concert pianist practice. Almost in militaristic schedule. Very strict and regimented. Hal leads me to the balcony. I catch his bare feet as he fishes them one at a time into his go-to flip-flops. Valvet was in high-heels; probably for hours in practice room. He asks whether I’d like something to drink. I shake my head. And I fill him in from the very beginning to what happened up to this point.

He repeats what I just told him. And I restate how I ended my last night’s typical over-the-top drama queen reaction. _I love you, Ollie Wally,_ I said it defiantly pretending to subdue seething ire, _but I don't have to like you right now. You be sure to answer the phone when I call you_. And I add how dramatically swiveled around, leaving Oliver alone in the crowded street.

“So, you’ve been clingy, needy, whiny, touchy-feely, unreasonable, illogical, and yet Oliver simply keeps on getting to know you?”

“Everything,” I continue with a bit of exasperation, “everything people who are not very good at dating do wrong in relationships. Basically, _everything_ we know guys hate. I mean, this is Defcon five. He apologized!”

Hal just blinks normally, and I repeat, “apologized!” in an excessively blown up ‘can you believe it?’ tone.

“You really don’t want to write this article, do you?”

I fill my lungs and dump my chest with slow shake of my head. Hal just chuffs under his breath.

“Well, I see two choices, either you fess up why you two met and how you two have gotten to this point.”

I look at him with ‘are you serious right now?’

“What have you got to lose?”

I groan.

“Yes, it is true I don’t want to write this piece. But… I am not about to tell him that I deliberately and intentionally have been conducting experiments on him. I am not at all _that_ kind of person.”

Hal studies me and in a measured yet nimble tone, he remarks, “you have only known him for two days. Who knows? He might just shrug it off or go along with it for the sake of it.”

“So, I should just conspire with him for a magazine column piece.”

“I don’t see any harm in that. You said, he is in advertising.”

My chest expands slowly to its full capacity with an awkward smile. He opens his mouth to say something but goes, “you–,” and I nod, so he goes,

“Get the fuck out,” Hal exclaims, finally getting what has been going on, “he doesn’t know you are working for _Composure_.”

I answer with a guilty awkward grin on my face with a slow nod, “he thinks I’m a starving lounge pianist.”

To my surprise, he breaks out into a loud laugh.

“Don’t tell me, Marzia?” he asks.

“Yeah… .”

Hal continues to laugh. Now he is holding his belly.

“Dude–, come on–,” I know why he is laughing but seriously, it feels like I want to hide away somewhere.

And Hal says something smart in French and I knuckle him on his upper arm.

“Sorry, I haven’t laugh like this in a while,” he tries to gather himself, “I’m not laughing at you. Okay–, okay–, I’m stopping.”

I spat out something in French and Hal quips back without missing a beat.

“Why does it matter to you?" he asks with an unpretentious interest.

“Why does what matters?”

“How Oliver sees you,” and he does this pause with a look.

“What are you talking about?” I retort back to him, pretending that I didn't register the way he looks at me. But we both are so aware I did.

“You said,” he pauses with a breath, “ ‘I am not at all _that_ kind of person’,” and gives me this look.

I pause.

“Elio I know is very good at persuading readers with his writing. Just like when you are sitting in front of a piano,” Hal begins, “so, telling Oliver the reason why you weren’t forthright about the details wouldn’t be such a burden for you.”

His gaze comes to a still and I am sucked into them. He is worse than my papa.

“Or am I sensing that there is something more going on?”

I contract my face muscles, reluctantly. To that, he hums, ever so meaningfully. Oh, I hate when he does this.

“Well, you have your answer then,” and Hal clears his throat with a wide smile.

“Wait, what??”

“It looks to me, you ARE interested in how your experiment is going to work out.”

I do a slow nod cause it’s true.

“But,” he pauses lightly, “you are conflicted that you are lying to him about the whole thing.”

“Yes,” I admit it out loud. Guilty as charged.

“Because you…,” and Hal trails off, “never mind, so, when are you meeting him?”

“Because I what?” I ask him. But he just shrugs it off and asks again, ‘when?’

“Tomorrow.”

“Wait, why not tonight?”

“Poker night. Oliver said that he and his team usually has a boys' night out on every Thursday. But for this weekend, they are meeting this evening to make up for the last one they missed. Or should I say, the one Oliver missed.”

“You're giving him a boys' night?”

“Yeah,” I reply nonchalantly, “why?”

“Are you sure you are set on seeing how this thing pans out for an article or are you still debating?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s what usual Elio would do. Giving boy’s night.”

Oh…I do care about how Oliver thinks of me. _Damn_

“What are you suggesting?”

“Well, to be honest, you know I’m in no position to suggest anything to anyone. You know that. But it looks to me that you first need to decide. Then you can debate on what kind of hell you’d unleash on him. For the remaining days of your ten days experiment.”

And I see Douglas walking out to the balcony with three cold beers in his hand.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Just-in-case Chapter detail ]  
> –Prince-[Kiss](https://youtu.be/ZduGsQMMhc0),  
> –Rammstein-[Deutschland + Sonne-Outro](https://youtu.be/u8XlfckoXc8),  
> –Guns N' Roses-[Sweet Child O' Mine](https://youtu.be/ZHJlRh6Leiw),  
> –Queen-[Bohemian Rhapsody](https://youtu.be/NCy_yePk4Gg),  
> –Evanescence-[Bring Me To Life](https://youtu.be/p3DmRVBOZ8w)  
> ......just to name a few... . _of course_ , any and every famous and recognizable rock-n-roll and metal hits have been played by Elio on this Saturday evening. Absolutely fabulously! I might add :)  
> .  
> –the origin of Journalist!_Elio happens to speak Portuguese: in _Find Me_ , Elio whispers lyrics into Michel's ear.  
> –rl model(?) or example for Velvet/Hal in this fic: there is a K-pop street hip-hop dancer named _J-Black_ who happens to be hetro, happily married to a famous hiphop female dancer/choreographer. He has a dance troop team called, _Pinky Cheeks_. In a short documentary, it showed that when he dances in _J-Pink_ (his female hiphop dancer persona), his whole demeanor changes completely. In an interview, he explained that since he sees himself as a performer, whenever he puts on high heels, he immerses himself wholly without any reservation. And the way he carries himself and speaks also changed into his J-Pink self.  
> .  
> As always, Thank You for reading, your time and interest.


	7. Monday (D-7)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elio does something very CMBYN cannon Elio and so does Oliver. And somehow, both didn’t see that coming.

**Chapter 7. Monday (D-7)**

**Oliver’s place, Sunday evening | Oliver**

“It’s not like you, Oliver,” Thayer says tossing one of his cards towards the center, “you do whoever you do but,” and takes out the cigar from the edge of his lips, “are you seeing someone?”

I side-glance him without moving much and lick the front of my teeth keeping my mouth closed.

“Come on~, Thayer, don’t even try it,” says Tony picking up a slice and shoves it up in his mouth without looking up.

Thayer makes a face, ‘what the fuck have I done that is so wrong?’

“What~? Mister I’m-such-a-confident hasn’t filled us in about this Elio Perlman guy. And!! You never say ‘no’ to playing 18-holes on the course. And in DC??”

And the conversation goes on about how pristine the golf courses are in DC. ‘As if you visited all 50 states’ golf courses to compare and contrast the true quality,’ ‘Politicians, man, you still think the politics is happening within the walls of the house or the congress, you are severely naïve,’ ‘Oh, and you know what we do for living is just advertising, huh?’ Four others on the table bickers, as they blow out the cigar smoke, chumping on the pizza.

I bring up my tumbler and take a sip, “call.”

“Already?”

I just shrug, nonchalantly.

“By now, this _mister_ ,” chimes in Caleb from two chairs from my left, “probably have been between all the long legs in fashion industry in New York city,” so casually without even looking up, “fold.”

“Whether he or she or they, it’s none of your business where his dick has been,” remarks Fernando, “raise you 20.”

Thayer puffs up his cheeks with stark expression of defeat, “I’m out.”

That’s when I hear Arioso.

“See? see? when did you become a fan of classical piano music? It’s the Perlman guy, right?”

I put out my cigar casually and lay out my card on the table, tossing the rest of the amber liquid into to my mouth. Everyone around the table make faces and Fernando swears something very Cuban under his breath. I swivel and get up. And as I walk out towards the patio, I pick up my phone from the wireless charging station.

“Hello, Elio–,” and I slide the door shut behind me.

“ _I uh… did I bother you?_ ”

“No, you are never a bother. Are you on your break?”

“ _Yes, can you please come down?_ ”

“Where? To the bar?”

“ _No, I’m outside_.”

“You mean…,” I stammer and I hear him chuckle nervously.

“ _…yes_.”

*

The elevator can never be this slow. Do this round without me, I said when they asked me ‘where the hell was I heading out in the middle of the game?’ The way Elio has been see-sawing emotionally for the past three days indeed has been a challenge. The one, shy but brilliant Elio who is full of life and genuinely down-to-earth without trying and the other ‘I need him to 1. Change his facebook relationship status, 2. Give me all his email, social media, and phone passwords, 3. Introduce me to his close friends; and parents.’ The latter, I mind you, if it wasn't for the bet to pitch the biggest account ever in my career, I would have never given a single ounce of reconsideration. Yet... a thought in the back of my head keeps telling me something. Something that I never thought I'd ever believe myself would do.

In some sense, Elio’s behavior is the ultimate example of him testing me; whether he is consciously aware of it or not, I’m not quite sure. He just wants to know that this big and tall guy who he met one night at a bar is safe–that I’m not going to hurt him, that I really listen to him and care about me. The way he looks at me and responses to my touches already tell me he is attracted to me. Yet again, I cannot shake off a doubt that something is not quite right. Should I think about the possibility of traumatic past? Or would his parents’ late divorce affected him that much?

When I step out of the entrance, I see him leaning against the wall. His hands at the small of his back, his unruly curls falling forward, his head dropped a little looking down, drawing something on the ground with the tip of his sneaker.

“Why didn’t you come up?” I begin, “did–,” I toss my chin to ask whether the concierge has given a hard time.

Elio looks up and simply shakes his head. We both know it probably took him a while to get here.

“Uber?”

His chocolate curls sways lightly side-to-side. So you walked all the way here.

“Did something happened again, at the bar?” is the first question I ask, a bit urgently than I intended.

Elio simply shakes his head with a soft, ‘no.’ I want to ask why he came here. Before I figure out a politically correct and roundabout way to basically interrogate Elio’s sudden change of mind since last night, he murmurs something as a half-ton truck rushes us by. And I don’t quite catch all of it.

“Sorry, say it again?” I chuff a little impatiently. Because I know how long it took for him to walk all the way here and that thought grabbed hold of me so tight, as if I am finally given a pass to an exclusive membership.

Elio takes in a breath and goes, “I just had to see you,” and he blinks: once.

The way Elio holds my gaze is something very different. Two hazel eyes holing an old soul. _What’s… going on in your head?_ Is my assumption of him unknowingly testing me proving it to be correct? This is unlike me. Why am I dissecting this?

As I just stand there without saying anything to what he just said,

“I… I should go,” Elio pulls his torso. And I see a flash of something that it so loaded with myriads of emotion. Surprisingly, I somehow catch all and every one of them. How...?

You never make a fool of yourself, Oliver. I'm glad you came. No matter how polar opposite his behaviors have been, I don’t know why that I am so sure of this notion, this–… this Elio Perlman standing in front of me who happened to decide to come see me, walking almost across town, just because he wanted to see me on boy’s night out, is _him_. The one who sat in front of the keys I saw the very first time. The one who is so modest about how much and how deep he knows about the things that matter. The soul who holds the code that harmonize that of my own.

“Are you seeing anyone?” I blurt out.

“What?”

I huff quietly under my breath, “are you seeing anyone?”

Elio looks at me with confusion.

“We never said anything about being exclusive. Or the subject of us dating, no, no, let me start over,” I continue nervously, stopping Elio from speaking any. Because if he does, I don’t want to see the other end of his spectrum to jump up and brush me off. So I don’t let him ask question or stop me from getting this out.

“I, Oliver Barry, would like to ask you, Elio Perlman, out for a date. Officially.”

.

**Composure, Monday | Elio**

“Chiara, please–,”

I stayed up all night and decided to man-up. I came in early this morning just to talk to Chiara about my decision. Avoiding the prying eyes. I knew she’d react like this.

“Is your computer broken? Or are you finding ways to get your hardware upgraded?” states Chiara, plainly, going over the concepts and drafts.

In fact, I can use some of those newest release trifold tablet but that’s not why I’m here.

“I cannot help but to feel burdened by the moral implica–”

“Elio, do you see any patches or insignia anywhere on my clothing?”

“No.”

“It's because I'm not your pee-wee scout leader, I'm your boss. You'll write the article.”

“I've gotten to know this guy… ,” but my reasoning gets cut off while she isn’t even looking at my direction but flipping through what graphics department just sent to her touch-screen monitor.

“Oh, don’t tell me you really developed feelings for this guy. What? Did he ask you out on a date?” she states plainly, but I know she is mocking me. Then, she carries on, “this issue’s cover is at the printer as we speak, with a special section on diamonds, which is going to take care of my ad quota for the entire year,” with a bit of glee on her face, she informs me triumphantly.

“Okay, but, Chiara...”

“No–‘but, Chiara,’ ” and she pauses, this time flicking her hair as she turns her head to give me her trademark stern look, “You'll do it–! because you're a professional.”

I square my jaw with a sigh. Chiara then adds her directive of making things more spicy.

“If I recall correctly, you had a piece about the therapists, right? Are you still in contact with her? What was her name?”

I breathe out through my nose and walk out of her office, thumbing through the screen.

/ ‘hey, Michelle, Long time. could you please call me when you get a chance?’ /

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew––, _finally_ *wiping the sweat* getting the D-day countdown semi-decently...   
>  Thank you always for reading, your time and interest. :)   
>  Do please stay safe and healthy: mind, body, and soul. *prayer hands*


	8. Tuesday (D-6)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a help from a good friend, Elio and Oliver are tasked to plan a trip as a couple. And _that scene_ from the original film at the theater happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –‘._._._.’ holds the reverie (stream-lined usage of symbols throughout the drabbles I post here in AO3. hehehehe)

**Chapter 8. Tuesday (D-6)**

**Tuesday, evening, after work | Elio**

“She is not your usual therapist,” I begin, leading Oliver up the steps, with his large palm on the jut of my hip bone. I give him a bit of her background; she is originally from NOLA, that I met her while I was trying to find out what the hell I was going to do as a part of career counseling session at NYU.

._._._.  
/ “ _No, no, no, no, no_ ,” / Michelle said over the phone, and started speaking Creole French, / “( _just because I practice a specific branch of psychoanalysis as a part of my practice, I won’t ever to a cold-read. Do no harm, remember_?)” /

Michelle muttered something tart in French and it made me laugh. When I explained my situation, Michelle took a long measured breath through her nose.

/ “ _Are you guys physical yet_?” /

“Woman!” I chided

/ “ _So that means, no. Excellent_ ,” / she said cheerfully, as if that was her legitimate way in for our mock couple therapy session. And the conversation went on and she made me swear that I will be one thousand and ten percent honest.

“You know there is no such thing,” I retorted.

/ “ _Good––, you have yet to become too-American, I am relieved_!” /

Michelle gave me her overall counseling plan, adding that she would do it only if Oliver and I are _willing_. You know I am not willing, I remarked tersely.

/ “( _oh, you sweet man, you know what I’m talking about_ ).” /

“Alright, alright, alright, I give–!” and I asked her what I need to do.

It is always quite amazing how her tone of voice (and demeanor) changes when she is in her _therapist_ -mode.

/ “ _I need your full consent to par-ti-ci-pate_ ,” / she emphasized for the third time. I think she detected my reluctance even after I agreed twice.  
._._._.

“Ahh––, Elio,” Michelle greets us, “Mister Barry,” she turns to Oliver and acknowledges him, “please–, come in.”

I always love her C minor tone. Calm and assuring.

Michelle leads us to the couch and she sits across from us.

“Before we get started, how are you planning on paying for the session?”

My eyes widen, and Michelle catches it as her closed lips trying not to smile. With my eyes, I ask her ‘what the hell are you doing??’ She just blinks.

“How much is it?” Oliver asks coolly.

“Well, for today’s session, $300,” Michelle states gracefully with soft smile.

‘$300??’ I glare at her with more distinct look.

“Mm-hmm,” she simply nods her head gently.

Oliver clears his throat as quietly as he can before he says, “whatever it takes, yeah.”

When Oliver reaches his hand up into his inner jacket pocket, Michelle raises her open palm—indicating, not now. And Oliver nods with a short, ‘alright.’

“Think of this as my assessment for both of you,” she begins crossing her legs at the ankles, reaching down for her bi-fold tablet that fold-opens into a double letter size. She thanks Oliver for filling out the forms and answering the package of questionnaires. And I look at her with, ‘ehrrr––, what questionnaires? When did that happen?’

Michelle glances up very briefly from her tablet, catching my expression, only to breathe out through her nose. And her fingers move over the screen.

“It is quite refreshing for me to have a couple like you two,” Michelle begins.

“What do you mean?” Oliver asks.

“Well, the world we live in is quite different from how things have been. And seeing two people who are willing,” she emphasizes the word with softly clenched fists with a little pause, “to know one another before embarking on their romantic relationship.”

Oliver does this head-gesture of, ‘ahhh–––.’

“Now, I’d like for you to know by going through the sessions–.”

“Ehrr––, excuse me, sessions?” Oliver respectfully cuts in.

“Yes, depending on how today’s overall assessment goes, I will be able to draw up how many sessions you two will need and how often.”

I reach my hand over and thread my fingers into his. Oliver turns his head and gives me a smile: a nervous and uncomfortable but ‘alright, I’m doing this’ look.

“What comes out via our sessions may result in you two not proceeding to be a couple. I’d like both of you to understand this possibility.”

“Yes,” I answer a bit too quick.

Oliver’s hand gives mine a squeeze. Is he assuring me?

Michelle, as expected, begins her soft inquiries, mainly for Oliver to open up about himself. How past four days have been for him. I gather Oliver is very good at summarizing chronologically without adding too much of his emotion. The objectivity. Hm–. Then, the part where Oliver decided to come visit me at the bar on Saturday comes up separately. And both Michelle and I catch that visiting his parents in Staten Island during weekend is very important to him. The session continues with the air of ‘let’s get to know each other’ without a hitch. She then asks how I feel about his answers. Whenever I veer to interject my opinion, Michelle shots me a look that only between established friends can grasp without much effort and requests me to try and phrase my answer with ‘how I feel.’ Yes, I know what she is doing. It’s so textbook. Soon, one of her questions prickles Oliver a little and she goes,

“Mister Barry, this is a safe space.”

“Please–, Oliver,” he answers with modulated tone.

Oh, this is my cue. Though Michelle and I didn’t rehearse, she did give me a word cue: safe space.

“What the hell was that??” I pipe up, looking at Oliver accusingly.

“What? what was what?” Oliver replies, mildly shocked.

“That!” I extend my open-palm, stiffly, then I turn to Michelle, “See? this is what he does, he had done it three times already,” and I turn to him, “you are a pathological flirt!” And I go off on how he flirted with Velvet, adding, “he” I begin with pointed tone of voice, “he flirted with my best friend!!” to Michelle, before I shot a look at Oliver with, “you just can’t help yourself, can you? She is our therapist. And what?? it’s been less than ten minutes. Ten!”

“Elio–,” Michelle says calmly, “let us breathe, inhale one, two, three, and out, three, two, one,” she counts with warm and even voice, “good, I can see that you have been practicing this. Very good,” she dips her chin a little, “Oliver–, would you like to share your point of view?”

Oliver parts his lips and I scoot away from him to the end of couch but he gathers himself. And he tells Michelle that it’s a complete misunderstanding emphasizing that he has no intention of seeing another.

“I’ve been in advertising business for quite a while and…,”Oliver starts after filling his lung, “I guess I’ve somehow learned how to utilize my attitude to break the ice.” I don’ know why but the way he explains and the way he looks are so––. Deep in his thought, or am I just fawning over him? And Oliver continues, “but I honestly do not want to see any other person.”

“Why don’t we try this?” Michelle says after she holds a look of careful consideration, “Oliver, please say what you just said, again. This time, please face Elio, and tell him.”

So he turns 45 degree towards me and repeats as he is told, “Elio, I honestly do not want to see anyone else. I asked us to be exclusive, remember?”

Something tangibly uncomfortable yet genuinely vulnerable fills the small distance between us. At my peripheral vision, I catch Michelle's cheeky grin appearing on her face and disappearing quickly. What in the gods’ name are you doing, Michelle?

“What I see is this,” Michelle interjects after letting a few more moments to hang between us. And what she suggests is beyond outrageous. Because she suggests us to spend more time together. Tossing the 'visiting Oliver’s folks' like its a walk in the park. 

“This wouldn’t be too much of a stretch for you, Elio,” she affirms without my consent. Oh, you– you–, I seethe in my head. Because I confessed that Oliver is under the impression that I’m a starving lounge pianist. My will to decide or even consider has been mercilessly taken out, as this began as a favor.

“The question is––,” Michelle adds thoughtfully, “would you, Oliver, be willing to invite Elio in?”

“I am, and I have been,” Oliver answers. And I sense a bit of frustration.

“That’s settled, then,” Michelle says in a jolly sing-song tone.

“…yeah, I mean, yes, I have some com time and I think my colleagues can cover me,” Oliver replies, mulling over the thought.

“Splendid,” she tips her head lightly, “I’m glad that you can make up for the visit you missed last weekend,” says Michelle looking so motherly-proud at Oliver, “and Elio can spend more time during the day with Oliver. A wonderful chance to get to know each other.”

.

**Tuesday, after the therapy session | Oliver**

I fill my lungs as Elio closes the door behind him. I’m glad the receptionist accepted the credit card.

._._._.  
When Elio called before lunch yesterday, after he asked me some time to think on my proposition I made on Sunday evening, I really thought I messed it up so bad and completely pushed him away. I secretly launched into a digital detective work to see if I could find any personal information about Elio. Although Thayer and Tony did their general search on Elio last Friday morning (me on last Thursday, late late night), I wanted to be sure. Nothing probably changed since then, l am logically and rationally aware. But I guess I still am trying to find something that I can look into, about Elio. To my dismay, there is absolutely no trace leading to Elio. Even through Marzia’s social media. What is up with this? I wondered with a bit of frustration.

/ “ _Please take this as is_ ,” / Elio requested over the phone, and told me that he too wishes to find out why he had those outbursts ever since he met me.

“So, are you saying, yes?”

Elio didn’t answer immediately. I wasn’t going to let Elio slide, without having him answer my question; without him letting me know. Even if we are to have four more days of pseudo-dating till this Sunday in order for me to demonstrate my ability to Philip as a single eligible man in New York who can genuinely woo and impress upon someone to fall in love with me in a short period of time. And in so doing, I can ultimately win the bet I made with Philip on Sunday, proudly. From the looks of it, call it a hunch, this charade with Elio is going to be something more than a short term. So, naturally, I want to do this properly.

“I’m not pressuring you,” I confess to him, “you know by now how I feel about you.”

Through my ear, I heard him subdue a groan into a long sigh. I could tell Elio was thinking and I wait. Did you check and see if the call is disconnected? Taking the phone off of your ear to glance whether the seconds are counting up still? The 'no words only diatant sound' continued. So was my wordless patience. A few more moments later, _finally_ he gave me begrudging answer of ‘okay.’ For some reason, hearing that ‘okay,’ though it wasn’t definitive ‘yes,’ made me feel like I just won a round of poker. When I tossed a jolly tease to him whether I could see him after work, Elio declined courteously. I understand, I conceded, as the voice in the back of my head echoed, _don’t push him_.

A half an hour later after agreeing to this couple’s therapy session, I received a phone call from a male receptionist. It was a pleasant conversation. Soon, I received a link and an attachment.

“I love what you did with the place,” Vimini said as she walked around my living room.

She has always been welcomed, wherever I lived. As she witnessed how this place was at its initial state (a dump), she wowed as she took a tour around the house. I came to own this place after this unit suffered a white collar crime/wall-street drug dealing operation. The law enforcement really seriously dismantled the whole place, as if it was from a movie scene. Fernando gave me an insider tip for the bidding process. Him being a federal agent, he has been taking advantage of government impounded items. Boats, cars, antiques, appliances, you name it. That was eight years ago.

“Holy–,” I exclaimed noticing how many questionnaires were there in the package.

Vimini hurried over and asked what happened. I filled her in. Oddly, she reacted a bit… _off_.

“Yeah…, I know–,” I groaned and told her of the story of how things have been with Elio.

As if to confirm my spidey senses, Vimini didn’t say anything.

“Do you know something I don’t know?” I toss a fishing question.

“I’m cis-femme, Oliver. Regardless of my sexuality, don’t look at me like I have some insider information about dating,” she mockingly dismissed me, walking away to kitchen, “dating and romance are just as mysterious for me, too.”  
._._._.

“So, Staten Island,” I tell him. To that, Elio huffs out a breathy laugh, a smile blooming wide on his face. And I fiddle with his fingers. I don’t want you to go. But I am too aware what just happened in our one-hour assessment session. Elio tells me that except for his regular commitment for Friday afternoon at the community center, he can manage.

“We can ferry back after lunch,” I suggest to him. And Elio nods.

Ultimately, I know I’m doing this so I can win the bet but… I really missed him. At that very moment, I feel Elio’s fingers loosen to let go of my hand. No… not yet.

“Do you feel like catching a movie?”

Elio looks up at me through his unruly curls, ‘huh?’ So I tell him there is a theater that plays one of my favorite movie.

“You mean, movie theater?”

“Where else, you goose,” I clown back at him, “I promise it’s not what you think,” and assure him the theater I’m talking about is very clean and not that kind of place.

.

**Discount Movie Theater, New York | Elio**

‘When Harry Met Sally?’ I asked him when he handed me the ticket. I was surprised that this place actually played this. I wondered for a minute whether Oliver is teasing me. But he holds my hand and asks whether I’d like a bag of popcorn. I just shake my head. Not surprisingly, the place has quite a number of people: but not packed. We are able to find center seats without being crammed between other people. I tease him when the last time he came to watch this.

“Not gonna tell you,” Oliver chuffs at his throat, lifting the arm of the seat between us. Gosh–, I love the way he laughs.

The film starts and Oliver takes my hand and places our interlaced hands on his thigh. Not surprisingly, Oliver slowly leans over to my side. Inch by inch. By the time, Mag Ryan is overtly faking her orgasm out loud at the _Katz’s Delicatessen_ , Oliver is kissing and licking the side of my neck. I can’t help but giggle on.

“Can't hear and can't see, why don’t you get a room?” a raspy voice from behind us tell us off.

Oliver mutters ‘yes, yes, yes, oh, yes, yes, yes’ into my skin, I feel his lips smiling wide, at the same beat as the silver screen.

“Pppffffff––,” I duck in my seat. 

“Hey–,Shh! Keep it down!” the guy interjects again, louder this time.

With a deliberately loud kissing sound, Oliver’s lips separate and he looks back at the guy a row behind.

“Mind your business,” Oliver says low.

“You better take your boy-toy to _your kind_ theater,” the 400-pound guy dares.

Oliver huffs with a snigger and he straightens his upper body and goes, “you, outside, now,” in his usual tone. Before I can do anything, Oliver pushes himself up off the seat.

I reach out my hand to grab him, and his shirt, but Oliver is too quick. So, I get up and duck my torso to follow after him.

“Oh, whoa! Oliver, it's okay,” I plead him, when I catch up with the two.

“He owes you an apology,” Oliver says defiantly.

Well, I get that even in this day and age, it is not usual to encounter such ideologically and mentally degenerate folks. But that’s not the reason to get into a brawl. Is this an American thing?? Oliver assures him everything is okay and that he is not trying to get into a fist-fight with him.

“Come on, we can go,” I tug at his elbow.

“Yeah, that’s it. Listen to your bitch,” the big guy spits and pushes Oliver’s pectoral with his both hands.

It takes only a split second from me hearing Oliver growl to his fist surging up towards the jaw of the pissy guy. The theater securities who have been watching the whole thing unfold and finally come to separate the two. As it turns out, the big guy is a repeat offender. Once the guy gets escorted out, we find ourselves sitting on the clammy purple carpet floor. And a thought comes to my head and I dislodge myself from Oliver.

“Hey––,” I hear Oliver calls out for me at the back of my head.

I almost jog to the concession stand to order a cup of ice and the attendant tersely says that they don’t sell it.

“Give me a medium soda, and hold the liquid,” and I toss two fives on the counter.

When I come back, Oliver is on his feet, talking to the building security whether he’d like to press a charge against him. Oliver declines. And the ticket agent walks over and says that she’d like to offer him free tickets. Oliver laughs quietly and accepts the offer.

“What’s that?” Oliver asks quietly, tossing his chin lightly up towards the cup in my grip.

I shake my head and shove the cup into his chest, before I take off my t-shirt.

“You wore two shirts?”

I chuckle out loud, “what is it with you trying to see me naked?” I toss a side glance, though smiling wide, straightening my shirt with my dominant hand while I reach out my other hand to get the take-away cup from Oliver.

“Ohh~~,” Oliver croons, totally amused.

“Yeah,” I retort, twisting the top of a make-shift ice pouch out of my shirt.

Oliver hisses as I press it against his eyes. I tease him not to be a baby, “it’s just a black eye.”

And that very moment, Oliver’s face relaxes and his eyes hold mine.

Blink.

Blink.

I watch him fill and empty his lungs, rhythmically, so usual, so nonchalant; and… we stand there holding each other’s gaze.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Just-in-Case Chapter Details ]  
> –Jungian archetypal psychology has been practiced in many different ways. I’m implying here that Michelle (a character taken from the original film of the title) is practicing rather eccentric way of combining the original meaning of psychic (of the mind/ psyche: [greek] breath) and the spirituality slash mystical slash modern general definition of psychic (as in medium and/or the ability alliterates with clair–).  
> p.s. I do not particularly endorse any. Rather I see what most people curtly dismiss as pseudo-science as a field of philosophy or literary art. If any of you are really and truly would like to understand the human mind (as always, **ONLY** if you wish), I humbly and respectfully request/recommend reading the works of Dostoyevsky, Kafka, Orwell, Sartre, just to name a couple.  
> –In the original film, it was a different movie, not _When Harry Met Sally_. me-brain says, going to see an oldie based in New York city fits better. *giggle*  
> ; oh, btw, guess where Oliver placed Elio’s hand when he was licking Elio’s neck in the theater–– *cheeky grin*  
> .  
> As always, Thank you for reading, your time and interest.  
> Do please stay healthy and be safe: mind, body, and soul. :)


	9. Wednesday (D-5)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A beginning of expedited version of reversed CMBYN two-week paradise: three days and two nights in Staten Island. A game of Bullshit and visits to Oliver’s old stomping grounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Heads up! ] Staten Island accent in dialogue   
>  *clearing throat with nervous shifty eyes* the Hard-lock on rating   
>  ; Not quite sure whether I’m transcribing well so far but… nothing sexy steamy in M or E will happen, just so you all are aware~~   
> 

**Chapter 9. Wednesday (D-5)**

“Iz mahwrupstæehz?”

.

**Staten Island, New York | Elio**

I meet him at the financial district. I didn’t know what the proper gift would be so, other than my crossbag for my personal belongings, I walk with two hands full of bags.

“What are all those?” Oliver asks smiling wide.

I just shrug, looking up at Oliver’s black-er eye. He reaches forward and I extend my forearm. As expected, he tugs at my hand and captures my lips. I cannot help but smile. To that, I hear Oliver moaning out my favorite of his: a low-low rumble at his throat. Yeah…, I love the way he savors our kiss. Not too wet that would make any body cringe yet just passionate enough for public. Maybe I’m just…

.

._._._.  
I’m always mystified at how Oliver can just hold my gaze like that, as if I’m some sort of rare magnificent art piece only a select few have a privilege of viewing. I let go of my fingers from the make-shift ice pouch. Oliver protested a little but I was more skilled than that.

“ehrr…,” I changed the subject, clearing my throat a little, “what time is good for you?”

Oliver made ‘oh, that–‘ look before he said, it’d be awesome if we could meet around 11.

“Better get in in the morning to let the kids know that I won’t be in the office till next Monday,” Oliver chuckled, leaning his head a little more on the ice.

I nodded, “well, Mister Oliver–, shall we say good night?”

Oliver filled his lung to say something but he held his tongue and agreed. Text me when you get home, please? was his last words.  
._._._.

I must admit though I’ve lived in New York for several years, I haven’t actually visited Staten Island. St. George sure. The light house museum: yeah sure. “(not to worry),” Oliver says in his American-Italian, “you’ve got someone who knows a thing or two.”

Once we get off of the ferry I automatically think that we’d catch a cab or bus. Oliver tugs our interlaced hands and walks the other way.

“Uber?” I ask.

Oliver shakes his head lightly twice, “something bettuh.”

When I cock my head with a quizzical look, Oliver just huffs out a laugh. For some reason, he looks so calm and relaxed: so content. And the inexplicable pure infectiousness of him being like this–– I too start to relax into this daunting feat of spending ‘couple’s quality time at Oliver’s parents’ house’ a little bit more.

A sharp high note of siren boo-woops twice. And an officer lowers passenger side-window as Oliver’s step comes to a stop.

“Right on time–,” greets Oliver, ducking down a little.

“Now yorah nooyawkah? Wuhayauh? Cullin’ me uh oobah?”

“Shawrup,” answers Oliver.

I look at him stumped and Oliver chuffs under his breath once before he introduces us. Joe is his brother-in-law who is a police officer. Joe jokes Oliver never brings home ‘nuthin’,’ and he is glad that someone has some ‘mænuh-z’ looking at the bags of goodies in our grips. That he is glad that Oliver will be spending week-days with ‘maw and paw.’ Within five minutes of conversation between them, Oliver’s accent changes. Well, better to say, he loses his advertising exec mannerism and back in his own. Joe still makes fun of Oliver losing his true accent. We swing by the local clinic and pick up Oliver’s sister. “You didn’t tell me you were bringin’ a guest!” before she twists her upper body from the passenger seat, “Hi, I’m Dora,” and offers her warm hand out to me. Thankfully, among three of them catching up, exchanging typical close neat family banter, I am able to understand the Staten Island accent better than I expected.

.

Joe and Dora walk on in first and Oliver makes a point of holding my hand even though we are walking a short distance from the drive way to the house. I half-expected Joe and Dora be just in front of us. Yet, as Oliver holds the door with his left foot to let me inside first, the place is quiet. And in just a moment later, I hear rumble of the old wooden floor. Three kids run in from the one side of the house.

“Iz mahwrupstæehz?” Oliver asks.

But three say fly by hello to _uncle_ Ollie and disappear to the other side of the house.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Excuse me,” a silver hair neatly tied up in a bun, a blue-eyed lady comes out from the side of the house from the direction where the kids disappeared to, “hi, hon,” and she kisses Oliver on his cheeks, before she softly mutters, “it doesn’t look as bad,” studying his black eye attentively, and continues with “show him upstairs, okay, hon?”

And a loud voice, that appears to be coming from the outside, booms across the house, “Glenda!!”

"I'm coming!” Glenda, Oliver’s mom, bellows back across the house, before she turns her head back around and places her palm gently on my cheek, “it's great to have you, Elio."

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mrs. Barry,” I quickly greet her, my cheeks feeling warm.

“Oh, no, no~, Glanda, or everyone calls me ‘ma’ here.”

The same voice hollers her name again and she tells us to join her and the rest of the family outside. “I got out the new sheets I got for last Christmas,” and she winks at Oliver. Then, she hears something and shouts, “bull shit!!”

Oliver leads me upstairs without reacting much.

“This is my room,” Oliver tells me, “it’s jack-and-jill bathroom in between. I’ll be staying in Dora’s room. Well,” he ducks his head a little with a subdued chortle, “Ma turned it into her sewing room but you know…,” and he shrugs.

.

“Bullshit!”

As soon as I follow behind Oliver out to the patio, I hear the curse word again. At first, my brain goes completely blank, without knowing what to think of the situation. Everyone is sitting around at a large patio table.

“And the whole family suffers from Tourette's,” says the older gentleman with a US Navy cap on his head, “I hope that's not a problem,” and offers me a wide smile, “you must be Elio.”

Oliver hands over the gift bags I brought and I hear Glenda cooing, “aww––, he is so thoughtful.”

“And extremely handsome,” adds Dora, shuffling her cards in her palms.

“Pa, this is Elio. Elio, this my ole man,” Oliver introduces us and adds he was in the Navy. And Oliver’s father offers his hand and says, “Jack.”

“Remember that news a while ago?” the other old gentleman, who happens to look as though he just shook off his sitting-early-afternoon-nap at the sight of a stranger, turns his head towards me from across the table..

“Uncle Arnold, Elio. Elio, this is Uncle Arnie,” Oliver says as he grabs his seat after taking Glenda’s suggestion of where I should sit.

And Uncle Arnie tells me about a Navy captain who was dismissed after he brought up the issue of infection spreading in his ship while the pandemic was in its peak.

“Sure, they had to call him back a few months later but this guy proudly took his honorable discharge. With back pay!”

“Now, young Elio, you got to watch him,” quips Jack, “he farts like a howitzer, but he's family, so what are you going to do?”

“Intestinal complications,” Uncle Arnold remarks proudly.

“Yeah, right, Uncle Arnold. Prunes,” retorts Oliver’s father without missing a beat and I see Oliver’s habit from him.

“Okay, here we have is what we call a game of Bullshit, and you are just in time for the lightning round,” Jack leans over to my right in a calm voice.

“I don't really know how to play,” I confess while watching Joe shuffle and part the deck.

“Well, we're going to teach you how. It's very simple,” Jack continues, “trick is to get rid of all the cards in your hand, all right?” and he gathers his into his palm and spreads them meticulously with a practiced ease. So, I do the same, as everyone else at the table.

“So I'm going to look in my hand, and I'm going to see what I've got here,” Oliver’s father glances down at his cards, “and, well, do you know?” gives a little pause, “I've got two aces here. …well, two aces,” and he studies my face expression, “What do you say to that?” and he leans back in his seat and, “what are you going to say?”

“I say…, bullshit?”

“Mm-hmm,” Oliver rumbles his throat.

“What did he say?” Dora pipes up, “I didn't quite hear. Did you guys–?”

“I didn't hear what he said,” chimes in Glenda. As too, Joe, and Uncle Arnie.

“What did you say?” Jack asks again, putting his open hand on his ear.

I grin first and glance at Oliver and he gives me a nod with a closed lip smile, so I go, “I said, bullshit!”

“All right!!!” Joe cheers.

“Now Elio knows how to play the game–,” Jack says with a bit of ‘let’s now get down to business’ tone I’m very familiar with. To that, I toss a quick, ‘yes, sir.’ And Uncle Arnold goes, ‘oh, I like him. I like him very much!’

.

“Let's see, now,” Oliver’s father begins, “I've got myself one deuce here.”

“Bullshit.”

“Whoa!” Jack jumps with a bit of exaggeration.

“Bullshit, Pa,” Oliver repeats.

“He's a human lie detector, isn't he?” Glenda remarks fondly to me.

“Try this, son,” Jack says again, “Two threes.”

And the round goes around the table and everyone makes a face to let me know Oliver is pulling everyone’s leg. So I go, “bull shit!”

Oliver lifts his eyes from his cards as his family drop their gaze back to their cards, “you see whose name's on top of the board over there?” Oliver points his extended arm at the old chalk board hanging against the old brick wall.

“Yes, it says ‘Oliver,’ with a star next to it,” I tell him.

“You still want to bullshit me?”

“I know nothing, Oliver. And yet, (you must be so proud),” I love the way we quip and playing tug-of-war, effortlessly.

“(I'm doing my best).”

The game of bullshit continues and I naturally blend into their lunch game. And Joe and Glenda bring out the large plate of homemade sandwiches. Oliver’s mom gently presses her palm on my upper arm and softly tells me, ‘this is for you, dear,’ and passes me a separate plate.

In the most heart-warming way, I quickly catch on that everyone on the table is wordlessly conspiring to help me win. Oliver’s mom always seems to lose first.

“Ma's never been that great at it, but why?” Oliver says fondly, lifting his stack from the table.

“Yes, why is that, my dearest?” Jack asks with a warm smile.

“Because I’m pure of heart,” and I catch Glenda blushing a little. A thing about women I find most intriguing is that no matter the age, there’s always this young girl’s pure heart in each and every one of them.

Another round finishes with Oliver not winning, and I go, “uh-huh. What is that... seven in a row, Uliva? Mister ‘whose name's on top of the board’?”

“I think somebody's met his match,” Joe states with a goofy grin on his face, reaching for another block of sandwich. Dora calls her husband’s name in a not-so-hushed voice. At that, Joe goes, ‘what??’ as he shoves almost the half of sandwich in his mouth.

Newly shuffled deck gets distributed for the eighth time and I can’t help but to ride the wave of teasing Oliver with his family. I lean a little to his side and go, “pssttt––, you see~ it's all. about. _reading_ people,” repeating back what Oliver just told me seven rounds ago.

To that, Oliver just scrunches his nose with a look, his eyes swimming with the want I am now so familiar. I catch Oliver playfully tips his chin to say, ‘hey, mind your own hand,’ and then he goes, “Okay. Two kings.”

Unbeknownst to him, everyone is making their own gestures to let me know that what he just said isn’t true but a dare.

“…Bullshit?” damn, my tone is way off.

Oliver’s head snaps up quickly and his eyes rapidly scan around the table.

“Bull!!” he exclaims out loud, laughing, having realized that he was the one being played, “shit!!”

Everyone breaks out into a jolly laughter as Oliver goes full on Staten Island accent, ‘nuh, nuh, nuh, nuh,’ and some more words I can’t quite catch.

“You have met your match,” Dora simply states, with a look of a little sister vicariously feeling triumphant, smiling softly.

Oliver pushes the patio chair and gets up off his seat, smiling ear to ear, “and You, Ma!” extending his arm and his open palm to his dear mother, “Miss Pure of Heart. And Pa?”

“I didn’t see anything,” Jack remarks with a wide closed lip grin.

“Cheated me. Betrayed by my own parents,” Oliver says with throaty laughs, “The only honest man in this place is Uncle Arnold, who's asleep. But I won. I'm going to go inside and play with the kids. Maybe they won't lie, cheat, and steal. Okay, keep my name on top of the board,” and he turns towards the sliding door.

“Now, Elio,” Glenda begins with her voice heightened with joy, “I hope you know that we are expecting you to come back here, because you have held Oliver to his lowest Bullshit score,” and Oliver rolls his eyes playfully saying ‘yeah, yeah’ in between her words, “–since his tonsillectomy, and we are thrilled!”

Oliver steps into the house and Glenda makes a point by repeating, ‘Lowest!’

“Why, were all his other dates Bullshit losers?” I ask with a big smile as Glenda comes around the table and reaches her arms to hug me in.

“What others, dear? You are the first he's ever brought home–,” and Oliver’s mom warmly and quietly tells me, “don't you break his heart, now,” as she pulls me so so close as if I have just became her favorite.

Strange thing is… I too feel like I’m home.

.

**Oliver**

After changing the diaper of little James, I find Elio helping out in the kitchen, standing next to my mother.

“Oh, there you are,” Mom turns her head around over her shoulder as she is handing Elio the last cup, “you do plan on showing him around the island, right?” and asks me so fondly.

She probably has been telling Elio about how many tourists miss the good spots and only go to what the tourist book says.

“It takes at least good three days to really enjoy the island,” she states with her trademark warm smile.

.

When I suggest that we should take the bike, Elio’s upper back stiffens a bit.

“No, you goose, e-bike,” and I lead him to the garage, “don’t worry they are not one of those girly bicycles.”

I let him have the one that has more wattage as Elio is not familiar with the terrain. I toss my head pointing to the wall where the most up-to-date map of Staten Island is on the wall. Elio asks it is quite interesting to see a large print color map.

“Well, pa and uncle Arnie prefer it that way and,” I shrug the rest as I begin telling him where we are going to cover this afternoon.

“Trust me, ma still thinks I’m not even 18 and if we come home early than 11 o’clock, I’d get in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble would that be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. why? you wanna find out?”

“awgh–fuck you!”

I pause and straighten my upper body slowly as I grin in the same manner, “yes,” and I breathe out audibly through my chest, blinking intently, “one day, definitely, we will,” then, give another pause, breathing in audibly so contently, holding Elio’s eyes. To that, Elio shakes his head lightly. I feel the edge of my lips quirk up and say, “But not too soon,” and I offer a cheeky grin. As expected, Elio tosses back:

“You think you’re so fly, huh?” with a nudge of his elbow.

.

**Elio**

I follow Oliver back the direction where we came from before lunch: towards St. George. And I quickly understand why Oliver insisted on me riding the one with more power. His long legs carry him way better than I’d possibly imagine. E-bike with fat-tire feels much stable. The traction is even better. Because it’s middle of the week, there aren’t many people out. I gather that Oliver is set on showing me around town where locals go, instead of tourist attractions. He points here and there, walking the bike when we arrive at a place, as he tells me his youth stories, what has changed, how different it was back then, and so on. Just like New York, I’m glad that there are many parks people can visit. The pavements are not all that in pristine condition but the vibe and the overall atmosphere of colonial buildings matched the surrounding. After stopping by the Heritage Park, Marina and around the Corporal Thompson Park, down the Henderson Avenue, turning down to Bard Avenue to pass by where Dora is working at, then visited all four lakes starting from Silver lake reservoir. Oliver is definitely fit. And we stop at a local Italian Ice shop called _Ralph’s Famous Italian Ices_. I feel totally out of place and enamored at the same time of the terms folks here use. I get to have two different kinds: water ice or cream ice. The manager happens to be Oliver’s high school friend and he allows me to sample different types of flavor in their shop inventory. Holding the Italian ice, we get across the street to a place called Danino’s.

“But we just had lunch,” I protest.

“What—, that’s like two, no, three hours ago,” he states as I raise my eyebrows, “okay, we’ll split a slice,” Oliver counters nonchalantly, adding he usually get a whole but this time he promises he won’t. I guess being a native Staten Islander has its perks. After exchanging pleasantries, the guy behind the display counter goes, ‘nah, nah, nah, yuh bean stalk, you get the fresh one, pahk yo butt.’

I don’t even know what he, no–, we are getting. The guy with white apron wearing only white short sleeved shirt brings out a freshly baked slice in 15 minutes. It’s fresh basil leaves with tomato sauce and fresh mozzarella. I’m glad my mouth is chilled from the water ice because it’s piping hot. Oliver laughs genuinely, ‘he did say it was right out of the oven!’

Up the road, he leads me to a high school. Port Harbor High. As if Oliver planned it, kids are getting out of school and we are able to visit the security office to get a permission to visit inside the school. We spend a good 45 minutes there, Oliver as my guide. Him walking the memory lane of his past. The next stop is the library.

“I came here almost every day,” Oliver tells me as we are walking by the building, “I don’t know how many hours I spent in there.”

“Should I be expecting to see a year book photo of you wearing thick nerd glasses?”

Oliver’s head turns to me and he chuffs, shoulder nudging me, “I had huge buck teeth that I grew into it. But, no,” and hooks his strong arm around my shoulder and does a head lock.

.

By the time we are sitting at the shore where there are rounded dark grey stones and rocks are is when sun is about to set. From here we can see the Manhattan. Though I’ve lived in New York for a few years now, I never really had a time to observe the view such as this. Bayonne Bridge over the harbor where freight cargo ships go by. Oddly, the sky is almost clear other than the horizon where the setting sun colors the clouds in varying shades of yellow, orange, and scarlet.

Oliver takes in a long audible breath, my head leaned on his shoulder.

“I was nine,” he begins, “People say things have changed that it is not like 80s but… having grown up in New Hampshire being an odd Jew out, the revelation of my sexuality still meant something totally different.”

In a split second, I debate how I should react to his words. But my body reacts. I grimace internally.

Oliver hums low and I feel the vibration through his skin, “Jack and Glenda are technically my uncle and aunt. When they heard what my folks were going to do–,” and he quickly and quite indifferently rush through the words of his biological parents were set on sending him to a reformation camp. I’ve heard about Christian specialty camps for young gay men being prevalent in North America. But I thought it was no more from the millennial generation.

“It wasn’t like I got caught kissing a boy. Or watching a gay porn. I was reading a book about Shelly’s life. But they knew,” Oliver continues, “I was thirteen when everything was said and done. My name then on became Oliver Barry.”

I don’t know what to tell him. I feel like I’m failing him miserably as my head became blank. So… I thread my arm around him, burrow my upper body close to his chest, and lean my head further on the crook of his shoulder and neck. Oliver lets out an audible sigh. Though I don’t look up at him, I can tell his closed lips are smiling softly.

.

“Yeah, now, this shower...,” Oliver tells me turning on the shower, “...whoa–– is a little bit tricky,” us being completely soaked head to toe, standing in the bathroom, as the showerhead splutters out streams of water, “The hot is actually cold. The cold is actually hot. You got to crank it all the way up, at first.”

._._._.  
It’s impossible to see the stars with the naked eye in the big city like New York. But as we sat there at the shore, watching night harbor life play out in front of our eyes, I think… Oliver and I connected in a way we never could, for the past five days. An unspoken agreement after being _let in_ to the world of Oliver. I can’t quite understand what it all meant but we sat there. The mission of _losing_ Oliver long left my thinking brain, I basked in the quiet we shared. Yet, for some reason or another, it started to shower hard. It almost felt like a scene from a typical rom-com movie. After the initial shock of sudden thick rain, we broke out into belly laughs.  
._._._.

“and... if somebody flushes the toilet in Port Harbor, you are going to get scalded. The towels are right there. …… Everything all right?

“Oh, yeah…, it's more than okay. I love everything about this house: the noise, the smells...,” I peel my gaze from him, as a wave of emotion swells within me.

“Yeah, well, the smells... that's Uncle Arnold,” Oliver jokes, tossing his chin towards the bathroom door, “…What's wrong?”

“It's just that when your mom hugged me today, she really hugged me... for winning a game of Bullshit.”

“…hey… that's a good thing. Smile,” Oliver says, with his softly curled fingers under my chin, “come on. Give me a smile.”

My eyes welled up, I line my teeth and give him a big teeth wide smile, like a good sport.

“Okay, that's good, that's it. Okay, now, you're scaring me.”

We chuckle together and Oliver ruffles the top of my head.

I want to kiss him and I know he feels the same. But Oliver takes a step back and fills his lungs. And he tells me to take my time, “don’t want you to get sniffles,” and shuts the door behind him.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Thank You for reading, your time and interest.   
>  Do please stay healthy and safe: mind, body, and soul. :)


	10. Thursday (D-4)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second day of forced holiday in Staten Island. Oliver’s sincerity finally helps Elio to shed his mission given by Chiara.

**Chapter 10. Thursday (D-4)**

_This is like coming home._

.

**Elio**

Oliver grabs my ankle, and it doesn’t take much for me to feel his palm, toasty.

So gentle; yet with his intent clear.

“Jesus–, Oliver,” I wake up with a startle, squint my eyes open to see where Oliver is, putting a pillow over my head.

I was half awake. The house creaks whenever there is a movement within. I was dreaming about something. Something very cozy and warm. A feeling I thought I long lost for some time. When I squinted my eyes open, I remembered I was in Oliver’s old room. Lying on my belly, pillow under my cheek, my folded arms under the pillow: on his childhood bed. Though I could tell Oliver is walking up the stairs as quietly as possible, walking on the ball of his feet on each step probably, the wooden stairs were loud enough for a visitor such as me to register someone’s presence without much filter. Once I hear the door opening quietly and slowly, I close my eyes shut. I feel the side of my bed dip with a weight as Oliver sits down. And he lifts the sheet further up. Oliver hums low, once. I don’t know what he is doing and I am engulfed in a strange mixture of anticipation and comfort.

“Is this a prerogative of being a musician?” Oliver rubs my calf up and down, “sleeping in?”

I subdue a groan as I turn my head into the bed, burrowing my nose into the sheet, “not everyone is an early bird like you. Five miles?”

He answers, ‘eight’ as I pretend to resist and Oliver grabs my ankle, keeping it in place. I thread my other leg over to foot his grip away. It soon turns into a play-wrestle and I end up sitting on his lab, straddling the top of his thighs. My bed head, morning breath, not to mention _very_ active morning wood tenting my boxers. He leans over to kiss me but I pull my lips away; he gets what I mean. So, instead, Oliver buries his sweat-sheened face on my clavicle, his warm palms on my back, finding their way up to the nape of my neck. I arch against him. And he groans out long and low.

“This is like coming home,” Oliver says low, barely more than a whisper, into my skin.

What does one say to that? Simultaneously, my brain goes, ‘this _is_ your home, you goose.’ Yet, I am completely lost for words. How do you even come close to imagine what those words truly mean and feel to someone? I don’t want to ruin this moment for him. Even if I do not really understand what Oliver means by it, I like this moment. I like being embraced by him like this. In his childhood room, surrounded by his books, his old posters, his old closet, his memorabilia, and…and… continue to be in this place in time that feels so foreign yet so very familiar and at ease. As stupid as it may sound, I want him to bask in and relish this moment. If I can be a part that makes Oliver feel the way he does, I think… I ought to honor it; as much as I am able. Am I asking for too much? Is this guilt I feel… because of what I have been doing to him? Or have I been feeling out of place ever since I moved to states? As if I am meant to be here, as if I have been looking for a place to belong. Is this… what I have been missing…?

“You know,” I begin quietly, “we are in your parents’ house,” plainly but tenderly. And I feel Oliver’s cheek muscle move against my skin.

“And this house is very old and walls are paper thin,” Oliver agrees, adding light chuckles, running his large palms on my upper body.

This feels… right. He feels right. And I can’t hold back exhaling out a long sigh of satisfaction. Never knew a guy can be adored like this. And that guy is… me. Or am I imagining? Is this all in my head?

I wrap my arms around him and thread my fingers into his sweaty hair, gently massaging his scalp. His head tilts up, peppering lazy kisses on my neck. I give a little tug just at the roots and Oliver gives me teeth wide grin with a low moan.

I want this, too, Oliver. I want to tell him, looking into his eyes. His morning stubble, sweaty skin of his, and his scent. The one that reminds me of the brine of the seashore by the villa on those days when there isn't a breeze on the beaches and all you smell is the raw, ashen scent of scalding sand. No man naturally smells as good as he does right now—the salt on his arms, of his shoulders, along the ridges of his spine. They are, in their honest sense, still very _new_ to me. Or am I just delirious?

“I’m gonna shower,” Oliver says the words, slowly. Very casual but unspoken punctuations in between enunciation. And he takes in a small breath through his gently parted lips before he says, “care to join?”

“Care to join?” I repeat his words with a snigger, mocking playfully.

Oliver breathes out through his nose and goes, “…Elio,” with a look. You know what I mean.

Oh, yes, I know what you mean. So, I fill my lungs and straighten my back a little and raise my arms over my head. Oliver’s lips part as he smiles wide. And his large palms fish under the hem of my t-shirt and lift my shirt up and over my head. I giggle through my nose as my hairs cling to the fabric. Oliver hums lightly twice, shaking his head, telling me without words to not get up off of him.

“No, no, no––,” I begin, placing my palm on his right pec.

“You basically weigh nothing,” Oliver says pushing us up off the bed.

“Oliver Barry, you–,” I wiggle in his embrace to free myself from his front piggy-bag hold.

Oliver just chuckles, kissing my neck. And I cling on to him as he walks us into the shower. Oliver places his palm firmly on me before he leans into the shower and turns the knob, one at a time. I chuckle into his skin, ‘this is ridiculous, I’m not a child.’ To that, Oliver’s upper body laughs. I love how it feels: everything–.

He checks the temperature before stepping inside. When I try to let my legs down, Oliver quietly hums ‘no’ twice and turns us around. And the back of my skin meets the cold tile. He is incredibly gentle. Oliver reached his one arm up, making sure we are not going to slip or stumble, and adjust the shower head. Not letting me go of his embrace.

“Is this …?” Oliver asks low.

Water feels nice. And I know what you are asking, Oliver. So I nod.

Oliver palms my hair as the stream continues on our faces. His gaze travels taking sweet long time; on my hair, my forehead, my eyebrows. And his thumb draws a soft line on my cheek bone, his eyes quivering ever so lightly, looking into me so intensely. So, I lean my head forward just enough to brush the tips of our noses together. A smile blooms on his face with an expression that he cannot believe this is happening. Oliver tilts his head a little with his lips parted gently.

“So, you run every day, huh?”

Oliver’s cheek muscles ascend with his shoulders bobbing as he laughs out a series of huffs.

“Yes, I do,” he answers, this time his thumb drawing a line on my lower lip.

Then, Oliver tells me it started as a way for him to get out of his mind and come back to his body.

“I don’t quite remember exactly when,” he breathes, his voice low but just audible enough to cut through the old shower’s stream, his eyes soft. That he didn’t know what to do or how to process his emotions that made him feel like ripping off skin, muscle, and sinew of his body.

Why are you telling me this, Oliver? I look into him.

Oliver huffs as his dips his head a little, “sorry, what a way to break the moment, huh?” nervously. I let my left hand loose from him and reach for his lower jaw. And I gently have him look at me. Streams of water trickle over his downcasted long lashes. I thumb his eyebrow and Oliver lifts his gaze back to me. I smile at the answer I’m about to give. And as if we’d promised, Oliver’s eyes tell me that he understood it. I like having my mind read, by him. The way he pick up how the messy and jumbled head of mine so easily is… incredibly titillating.

.

Oliver laying on my lap as I read the book for him. How I was able to persuade Oliver to just lounge around one of the less crowded park in the middle of Staten Island is still a mystery to me. We took a bus. The perks of being a proud owner of MetroCard. Homemade Panini already gone, two happily fed guys lazing under the shade of a large old tree, indeed is a slice of heaven I’ve never expected to experience.

“I love how you say things.”

I give a small huff, finishing up the paragraph I’m reading, “oh, so you have a thing,” I tease him, “most people here in _America_ I met have a thing for Spani–.”

Oliver grabs my wrist. A grip that snaps me out of my long ingrained habit yet ever so assuring enough to tell me he only means well. My heart skips a beat. And Oliver gives it a little tug to lower my wrist down, with the book still in my hand.

“Wha–,” and the words escape me that never gets a chance to finish its meager single syllable. Because of how Oliver is looking up at me.

He fills his lungs inaudible first, his eyes locked on mine, “Stop putting yourself down.”

We are doing it again, Oliver. We are understanding each other without words. His plea, multiple sentiments gathered in one yet unaltered that get across and lands right in the bull’s eye of my heart. Not when you are with me. I know what he means. But I want to hear him say it; say them out loud so I’d know it’s not just in my mind that I'm understanding him this way, without words; that it's a two-way street; that _we_ understand each other.

“Or what?” I ask quietly.

Oliver breaks out into a singular chortle, “Elio Perlman,” just once, before he says, “you and your smart mouth.”

Yeah, I know I do this on purpose. But I make a face of dare, ‘what the fuck are you gonna do about it?’ with a smirk.

Oliver pushes himself up, his face barely brushing over mine. Our noses just about to touch, I see him part his lips. Our chests bellowing at the same rate, same rhythm, the intensity hanging between us is unmistakably palpable. And I’m the weakest one of us;

“You’re gonna make me crossed ey–,”

Oliver presses his lips over mine and my head goes completely blank.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, Thank you for reading, your time and interest.   
>  Do please stay healthy and safe: mind, body, and soul.


	11. Friday (D-3)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two come back to NYC earlier than planned and Oliver invites Elio up to his place.

**Chapter 11. Friday (D-3)**

**Oliver**

We fall over on my bed; the full length of Elio’s back flushed against my heaving chest and belly, my face buried on the crook of his neck. Us panting at the same beat, trying to catch our breaths. I taste the salt and something very Elio as I kiss his toasty sweat-beaded skin. Elio lifts his left arm up-and-around and takes hold of the back of my head. And I feel his lips on my cheek bone. I can’t help but to moan. How gentle and loving he is. The extreme closeness and unbridled tenderness he expresses, with just a kiss. The way his fingers swim on and around my scalp is so luxurious and satisfying. Elio dumps his chest in one single long exhale and I feel him pulling away.

I tighten my hold around his waist, “no, no, no, no, no, I’m not done with you yet.”

And I feel Elio’s upper body move against my skin as he laughs. I love how it feels.

._._._.  
Under the stream of the old-old showerhead, his legs wrapped around my waist, we stood. Elio’s porcelain white skin, sprinkles of freckles, the lines of blue and green running along his limbs. Awghhh, Oliver, you are hopeless. Everything was perfect; everything was just right. A thin vertical crease appeared between his eyebrows as he knitted them together; his hazel eyes studying me. I felt my jaw lax and the warm moist air in the shower filled my lungs.

“Sorry, what a way to break the moment, huh?”

What’s going on in your head? His eyes asked. Am I scaring you, Elio? Because… I don’t understand why I’m telling you all this. But I want to. I want _you_ to know. I know we’ve only known each other for a very short while but... I think… I have _wanted_ you to know. There is no one else in the world that I have felt this much urge to have understand me. Sure, I’m probably just overly sentimental. Yet, here you are. Regardless of how we came here, you. are. here. A place that holds a lot of memory. A lot of _me_. So, yeah, I want you to know, Elio.

Elio let his left hand loose from me and reached for my lower jaw. And I knew what Elio meant; he was gently having me look at him. Streams of water trickled over my down casted eyelids. I’m not intentionally resisting it. I’m not. I just… . Why can’t I? I fiddled my fingers on his skin. Elio drew a gentle line with his thumb over my eyebrow. A wordless request louder than the actual words. _Oliver–, look at me_. So I lifted my gaze back to him. And––, my breath hitched at the base of my throat. With a slow motion yet not really a slow motion, Elio smiled. And I got to see how each of his face muscles work to form such a magnificent smile on a human being. I think I’ve never seen that in a person, this intimately. As if we’d promised, without words, Elio’s gorgeous and kind eyes on me, I understood him.

I like being understood like this, by him;

I like understanding him like this.

I like having my mind read, by him;

I like reading his mind.

I splayed my fingers and took hold of his angular jaw. The top layer of skin on my fingertips glided over Elio's bare skin there and it felt like a dream. His eyes poured out the same emotion that matched the very thing summarily taking all over my body. Soon, we were standing together skin to skin, my running shorts and his boxers carelessly tossed on the other side of the shower. And a flash of memory, from almost a week ago, flooded me; Elio’s nimble grip my body I, my senses, so vividly remember. No, it’s happening now. That hand was back on mine again.

Elio lifted himself, him almost felt motionless in my eyes and my embrace – a static vertical surge without notable change it seemed. He was on the ball of his feet, with his heels off the floor, and our eye levels aligned. And I felt my cheek muscles rise. I threaded my arms around his mid-back, pulling him in closer. As if we rehearsed, Elio swung one of his leg around my waist. So bold. So forward. Knew exactly what to do, how to keep me hooked. I buried my nose right under his ear lobe, my open mouth on the crook of his neck and shoulder, and my hand raked the taut slender length of his upper leg. Elio’s head leaned towards my temple with a long soft moan. My hand found its way up along his leg and palmed on his small yet round butt cheek. Elio giggled quietly when I circle the tip of my middle finger around the small crater of his.

“I don’t think shower will be loud enough,” Elio teased low, sucking off my tongue and my lips slow.

The way Elio quiped and joked back even in the midst of palpable yet delicious tension was ridiculously mind blowing.

“I’m sure we can manage,” I breathed the words into his mouth, just as quietly, with soft chuckles. And I extended my finger and Elio tilted his head just so when the whole length of my middle finger slipped into him; his eyelids fluttering ever so lightly.

His chest bellowing right against my bare skin, Elio felt amazing in every way, “You okay?” I asked quietly.

He nodded first, “me okay.”  
._._._.

“Except for that visit to a second hand book store, I have been right next to you, the whole time!” Elio teases me, his fingertips kneading my scalp, in a way something between coaxing yet soothing my unyielding possessiveness. Logically and rationally, I do not understand why. I met him a week ago. And I’m never the type to develop attachment this quickly in this intensity.

“Besides, you are still in me,” and he pets my naked butt, twice, before he pulls his body away, getting himself up. I groan low at the sensation and I hear a soft muffled pop as we separate fully. Or I'm imagining I just heard it.

And my body does this incredible thing. As if I'm losing something extremely precious and dear, I chase after him, in a desperate hurry; gliding my back down and along the edge of my bed messing everything up more, my hands seeking, reaching for, and succeeding on taking hold of the jut of his hips.

“Oliver–,” Elio protests by putting his palms on the spot where my clavicle and pec meet, as I kneel in front of him; my sheet clinging to the sweated skin of my back.

“mhm, mm,” I shake my head, looking up at him, my wide-grips now on either side of his hips, as I square his glorious nakedness in front of me. I love how his erection is bobbing right in front of my eyes.

“Bu–, I’m thirsty–,” Elio whines low, combing his fingers through my hair. Yet I see him smiling, his gaze right on me. And again, I understand his wordless expression.

I lick the underside of his full length lazily.

“Oliver, noo~~,” Elio resists by pulling his body away from me, especially at his hips.

I place one of my hand over the back of his thigh and the other to swat away Elio's persistent hands. With the back of my head resting on the edge of bed, my gaze locked on his, I declare quietly, “you’re gonna come for me and,” Elio protests with a wide grin, still trying to wiggle out, and I square his hips again. And I make sure to let him know I am not going to let go of him. Soon, Elio stops trying. I smile wide before I enthusiastically start lapping him up in my mouth. Rolling my tongue over and along. In between, I mumble against his length, glancing up at him, “we’re gonna do this, over, and over, and over, again.”

“We came back early so I can get some sleep~,” and he moans at the sensation.

Yes, I know you have a class to teach at the youth center.

._._._.  
My old bed creaked so much, so loud, last night, we felt like two high school kids who were afraid of getting caught having sex. I think we laughed more than purely peaking with pleasure and orgasm. What a way to have the first time. I quipped. And I didn’t know the missionary would be this thrilling. Elio bantered back giggling endlessly. Him being factitious like that with the perfect timing was beyond this world. Because what could have been a total flop, his unending giggles and laughs made things amusing for both of us. And a short while after, we ended up belly-laughing and crying as quietly as possible so we wouldn’t wake anyone. When all things were said and done, Elio let me snuggle up against him. At my request, I fell asleep listening to him telling me about whatever-subject in his Italian. I never knew how soothing his mother tongue would be, in his voice. And I couldn’t remember the last time I slept that well.

When we woke up as the dawn silently dawdled, Elio told me he really wanted to visit the used book store. Didn't know you are a used book connoisseur. Elio didn't say much. Is there something specific you are looking for? He just shook his head, lightly. My arms wrapped around him, my lips glued on his skin, “yeah, sure,” I finally answered him. Elio hesitated. Maybe he was hoping for me to disagree?

“What’s wrong?” I asked him, my forehead scrunching a little upward.

Elio said he didn’t want to make my mom feel bad for not having breakfast. I hummed with a smile. And I have a class, you know, Elio grumbled a little. For a split moment, I debated whether I should tease him more. But I understood his politeness and respect towards mom. And Elio was saying he wants to take some time at the store. 

“Tag along on my run, mhm?” I suggested on his skin. The bookstore hours is later than my usual morning run. But if we were out, it'd be less impolite as both of us'd miss the breakfast. 

“I’m not running with you,” Elio replied quietly in a ‘just-so-you-know’ tone, twirling his fingers at the edge of my hair.  
._._._.

**Oliver's place, New York**

We come out of shower together. I insist on drying him. Elio rolls his eyes but he stays still since I threatened him; if you ever resist, you sure will be missing your class. I don't know why I am so adamant and uncharacteristically being bossy to him today. But I like this side of me I never knew I had. Especially, the way Elio feigns his objections knowing he is going to let me anyway. So fucking adorable. I dab and gently pat him down with a towel, then up, around, and under, taking everything in: freckles, little bumps and marks, old and recent scars, tiny knicks and minute knacks on his body. Then as if something came over and possessed me I start kissing his inner thighs and knees. Elio lets me place the bottom of his foot on my thigh as I dry his calf; and I kiss his ankle as well. I hear him grumble fondly with chuckles how nimble I am. “You bet I am,” I retort back as I find my way up, still drying him, kissing his skin slow in steady pace, taking my sweet time: back of his thighs, his lower back, notches of his spine, his shoulder blade. When I finally come to an upright position, I toss the towel over my shoulder before I lay the last kiss right under his right ear lobe — as if I’m putting a stamp of approval on my own work. I hear Elio stifle a huff, through his nose.

“Satisfied?” Elio quips low, and he says something along the line of 'everything in order? I didn't lose anything from the bed to here?' 

“Very,” and I give his butt a little slap and I lean in to rub our noses.

Sure enough, Elio reaches forward for another towel. So I go, “nuh-ah! hands off.”

Elio extends his fingers in surrender and stops himself, pulling his upper arms in a little closer to his ribs, “please don’t tell me you’re not gonna make a habit of this,” and fills his lungs, meaningfully.

I reach my hand out and grab a fresh towel then wrap it around his waist. Elio just chuckles under his breath, keeping his open palm at his shoulder level. And I lean in slowly close to his face as I tuck one end of the towel in his waist. Elio looks up at me with all knowing grin. I chuckle quietly before I part my lips to kiss his. Elio’s head tips up just so, so inviting and so pliant, and his lips glide along mine as our tongues swirl together in a tempo I came to know Elio enjoy.

“We’ll see,” I reply to him nonchalantly, as our lips separate with a loud kissing sound.

Elio walks out of the bathroom, shaking his head lightly.

.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

[ Chapter Deleted Scene ]

Elio stands in front of Oliver’s closet for a while and he picks out a billowy blue shirt. The very shirt Oliver was wearing the first day they met. He swings the shirt around his torso and it opens up with a soft pluff. After threading his arms, Elio buttons up off-side. Once he is done, Elio tosses the seams of shoulder back, smoothes the well-ironed collar, before he tucks shorter hem into his jean. When he walks out of the master bedroom, Oliver is in his full bike outfit. Brown leather jacket with red and yellow strips on his upper sleeves over a dark blue slim-fit jeans. 

“Ready?” Oliver asks.

Elio nods once, straightening his shoulder bag. And two walk into the elevator together, Oliver leaning down to kiss Elio on his mouth.

On Oliver’s coffee table, craft paper wrapped rectangular object lays atop with a paper string tied on its waist.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –Oh, yes, for me, _Uliva_ is the softy of the two. I know, I know, me with my different interpretations. *light chuckles*  
> .  
> As always, Thank you for reading, your time and interest.  
> Do please stay healthy and safe: mind, body, and soul.


	12. Sunday (D-day)_Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of D-day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue Heavy, Non-linear progression, inevitable POV shift — please don't murder me *ugly crying on my knees with prayer hands, snots and all*   
> 

**Chapter 12. Sunday (D-day)_Part One**

**Oliver**

“You sure I won’t be embarrassing you?”

“That’s impossible,” I retort back, picking an invisible fuzz off of his suit, “did I tell you how stunning you look tonight?”

.

**A little bit earlier...**

I insisted on getting off from the company limo Philip had arranged. ‘Certainly, Oliver’ was the driver’s answer, so cool and so unbothered showing his years of experience as a limo driver, when I asked him to drive me to Elio’s place for a pick-up. Of course, I didn’t tell Philip I was going to bring him. Not even to Thayer or Tony. The exact word of the bet didn’t include me inviting Elio as my guest. In honest truth, I didn’t know I was going to ask him to join me to the ball, either. Because I didn’t know Elio was going to walk us to his place.

.

**Friday | Late Evening**

“This is home, huh?”

“This is home,” Elio answered, after stepping up holding my hand.

“Hey, listen,” I began, drawing a soft line on his hand with my thumb, “on Sunday night my boss is throwing a party. I want you to come with me.”

“A party?”

“Well,” I dragged the ‘l’ a little, “it’s a ball.”

“A ball,” he repeated, simply blinking his beautiful hazel eyes.

I chuckled out a huff at how adorable he was, “yes, a ball, you goose, I would love for you to come with me as my boyfriend.”

Elio’s mouth gaped softly, with two quick full blinks. I am nervous as hell. Is he thinking about saying 'no?' 

“Are you calling me your boyfriend?”

I couldn’t help but to chuff under my breath. Silly, I’ve said it before, I want us to be exclusive. Even without the couple therapy. I wanted to tell him. But I simply answered him with:

“Yes, I think I am.”

.

**Sunday | An hour or so ago...**

It was an on-the-spot decision when I asked Dan (the driver) to let us off almost two blocks before we'd reach the destination. No, the traffic wasn't bad, neither the ride. Elio did pester me with his usual quick-quips in some lines with, ‘I didn’t know Oliver Barry the advertising executive is shy about Hollywood-ask entrance to a company ball.’ To that, I tickled him and he giggled effervescently, not forgetting to wisecrack about his suit being old that he might rip the seams if I keep making him laughing too hard.

“So your dress shoes are broken in, I see,” Elio said to me, once we were safely on the sidewalk.

I must have looked at him with such a puzzled look. He huffed with a lopsided grin and went, “I mean you don’t mind the walk.”

“No,” I smiled at him, “I don’t mind the walk.”

“Oh, hey, I know a shortcut,” and Elio took hold of my hand and began to walk.

I gave his hand a little tug. And his unruly curls swayed a little as Elio looked back at me with ‘mhm?’ expression. His shoulder turned first then his wonderful face. 

“Maybe I don’t mind the long way,” I said to him. And for some reason, I uttered those words as if I wasn’t sure what I meant by them. So, “maybe we should take the long way,” I rephrased it and pushed my cheek muscles up towards my cheek bones.

Elio cocked his head, turning on his heels to face me properly. What’s the rush, huh? I said to him, it’s not like that it’s a business meeting I must be on time. And I wondered whether Elio could tell I was getting a bit on edge.

Two hazel eyes, now shade a little lighter and more complex as his lenses reflecting street lights, narrowed a little. Only just. Then, my eyes took in the way Elio filled his lungs. Slowly and pensively.

“Is there something I should know?” he asked quietly. A tactful yet thoughtful, as if to give me a chance to voice whatever was bothering me. Yeah, he understood me. Was I trying to confirm how close our connection is? Don’t worry, Elio. I wanted to tell him. Because I could tell his cogs were turning – probably wondering about and trying to figure out what kind of stuff were floating around in my head. But poorly interpreted in a way that I wouldn’t be able to imagine. At the same time, I was bracing myself whether Elio would throw another one of his _tantrum_ s.

“You sure I won’t be embarrassing you?” with his eyebrows coming together closer, Elio asks again.

“That’s not it at all, you goose.”

Elio blinks once.

“You’re not embarrassing me. Because that will be impossible,” I retort back, picking an invisible fuzz off of his suit, “did I tell you how stunning you look tonight?”

Elio rolls his eyes and nudges me with his forearm. I grab his upper arm and give it a playful tug. Soon, we tussle. Two people dressed up way too much for the streets of New York goofing around in the middle of a busy street is quite sardonic. Yet no one on the street pays attention to us. The benefits of social media creator age. Soon Elio is wrapped around in my arms and we are standing still, facing each other. His gorgeous hazel eyes on me, mine on his. Elio’s teeth wide smile disappears ever so slowly as he just understood what I’m about to do. His eyes blink and I lean down to capture his lips. Elio pulls his chin towards his chest and my lips land on the bridge of his nose. And he tells me he had accompanied his father on many events similar such as this. I know what it’s like to be the professor’s son tagging along, trust me. And he gives me a soft smile. 

“I’m serious. That’s not it at all, Elio. And I’m not trying to be sappy, either,” I say low, my gaze drawing lines around his forehead and down to the bridge of his nose, “you do look extremely handsome tonight.”

Elio hums low before he gently wiggles out of my embrace. My left hand automatically draws a long line along his arm and it takes hold of his hand. His long pianist fingers close over my hand, like leaves closing right after sunset. Light and soundless. And I let go of the grip without letting his hand loose, align our palms, and interlace our fingers together. Elio huffs under his breath and, with an ‘alright, I’ll play along’ expression, as we begin our strides to tonight’s final destination.

“Then what is it?” Elio asks when the light turns green at the crosswalk. 

I cannot help but to fill my lungs, as if I’m mustering up some courage to tell him. As if I’m going to let him down slowly. But Elio, that’s not it at all.

“I don’t want anything to change or to come between us tonight.”

His chin swivels and the silhouette of his magnificent angular face comes into my peripheral vision. I bring our interlaced hands over to my chest.

“Who’s the goose?” Elio retorts quietly, this time nudging his upper arm on my side. 

As if his words are a magic spell, my head turns to him. And I take a long look at him. Dazed and in awe. 

“Guess what I found on the coffee table?”

“Ahhh––, did it blend in to your environment too well?” Elio teases me. No awkward moment after me bearing my heart. I love how he understands me like this.

“That’s what happens when someone is running _high_ on romance,” I remark back.

“Yup, I was right, you are being too sappy. Are you sure you brought all of your brain?”

“Did anyone tell you that you are such a goose?”

.

**Saturday | Evening | Piano Bar**

As I pushed the glass door forward, I was greeted with the piano melody Elio was playing. A tune I heard before but couldn’t quite point out the name of the song. Yet I got the sentiment of each note played on each keys. Warm and fuzzy.

“Oh–, boy,” Marzia muttered under her breath, wiping the crystal hard liquor tumbler in her hand rather disconcerted.

“What? did you mix up an order?” I asked her casually, sitting down, and hooked the bottom of my left boot on the lower rail.

“Uh, hey, Oliver–,” replied Marzia, looking a bit surprised, in a ‘fancy seeing you here’ tone, “anything I can get you?”

“Is kitchen still open?”

Marzia cocked her head, only just, with a wry grin, “it always is,” and clicked her tongue with a wink.

I didn’t know what I was going to get. And the guy came out with a burger and a heapful of steak-fries. And Marzia leaned in as the guy was pulling his apron string from his waist.

“Shit, sorry dude, I thought it was for Elio,” he stammered and I heard Marzia muttering ‘shut up’ as she nudged her knuckle on his side. He quickly straightened up and went “if you want,” tossing his thumb over his shoulder, “I can whip up something else real quick.”

“Nuh, man, this is perfect,” I answered back, lifting the top bun and greeted with slices of avocado and crisp bacons, “looks like you are off the clock.”

“Right on, see yuh.”

Marzia passed me cutlery rolled in a linen napkin.

“Grazie.”

“I heard you invited him to a function,” Marzia remarked in a mused tone offering ‘beer or club soda?’

I pointed the club soda(or seltzer I wasn't sure) and Marzia tipped her head down a little, scooping up some ice with her left hand, right under the counter. Crisp sound of ice cubes filling in a crystal tumbler hailed me with a delight. After she filled the glass with bar standard level of liquid content, she tipped one of the flavor bottle. The bubbly quinine water turned orange. With her right hand, she deftly dropped in a tiny leaf.

“Orange mint,” explained Marzia at my raised eyebrows.

I hummed before I said, “I’m surprised that he agreed to come. It’s a last minute notice and all. And I know how important weekends are for him.”

Marzia simply hummed with that similar wry smile, “don’t worry, he is not that type.”

“What type?” I asked with my mouth half full, covering it up with the napkin though.

“Eh Ma Gawd, I don’t have anything to wear––.”

“Ahh.”

“It’d be nice to see him all suit up, again,” Marzia said, smiling to herself.

“Mhm? again?” I asked her back.

“Once upon a time, Elio was a rising star.”

“Once upon a time?”

“That was what? almost seven years ago,” Marzia began. And she told me a bit more about how Elio ended up in U.S. By the time I asked her why Elio didn’t continue pursuing his formal training in New York where there is one of the world’s most renowned higher education institutes available for his talent. Juilliard.

“Oh, you think I didn’t try?” and she confirmed eight drink orders back to one of the servers, “I know it’s been like what, a week?”

“Ten days tomorrow,” I replied back.

Marzia rolled her eyes, “but you _know_ —, how stubborn Elio can be.”

I just hummed, agreeing with her.

“Oo–, speak of the devil,” and she gestured zipping up her lips with a wink.

I swiveled around my seat and got up to greet him properly. Elio, to my surprise, walked into my arms. And he went, ‘oh, good, you left me some fries.’

The way Elio grabbed the mustard bottle – well, almost snatched, actually – from Marzia’s hand as she made fun of him that appeared to be for a thousandth time, I didn’t know why I felt so glad that Elio has such a wonderful good close friend. The other thing I noticed was that this place seemed to have some agreement about converting gift drinks for Elio into tip jar money. In just less than five minutes of his break, several ten and twenty dollar bills went into the jar.

“Is this–?”

Elio just shrugged his shoulders, dipping the rest of the fries into mustard.

“Yes, this is usual,” Marzia answered, instead.

“And here I thought you are a starving musician.”

“Just by this? your perception of me changes? Oh, I am moved,” Elio reacted as if he was so very moved. Placing his palm on his chest with a mock frown, drawing a tear down on his cheek, chewing the rest of steak-fries in his mouth, his cheek bulging a little. How incredibly edible he is right now, was all I was thinking.

.

**Sunday | the Astor Museum | 3rd person POV**

“I'm going to go to the bar and get us a couple of drinks,” Oliver tell Elio, with his lips almost touching Elio’s cheek, putting the QR code invitation back into his suit jacket inner pocket.

“I'm going to go to the bar and get us a couple of drinks,” Elio repeats back with a silly smile.

Oliver chuckle low and “while I do that, would you please head over there and—?”

“That’s––.”

“Diamonds are not just for women. You’ll see,” Oliver says him, giving him a light peck on his lips.

.

“Phillip.”

“Chiara.”

“I don't see you at a party for ages,” Chiara asks Phillip, “now here you are, throwing the bash of the year.”

“I'm glad you could make it,” replies Phillip coolly.

“Like them?” Chiara asks, putting her fingertips on her tiara.

“Ah, it suits you.”

“I know! Harry Winston,” Chiara muses, “how did you get all these jewelers to agree to appear at the same fete?”

Philip expands his chest with such a pride on his face, “at the request of Mrs. DeLauer.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you see,” Philips leans down a little as if he and Chiara are having a confidential conversation, “Mr. DeLauer controls almost all of them. And Mrs. DeLauer controls Mr. DeLauer.”

“Oh, you're bad,” Chiara coos. 

“Ah! Vimini,” Philip raises his chin as he spots Vimini walking towards his direction, “and I must ‘thank you’ again.”

“You’re kidding? A young woman so talented such as Vimini, the joy is all mine.”

.

Elio is looking around the extravagant display of several exquisite pieces of jewelry.

“s'il vous plait?”

Elio appears to be startled a little but he smiles back to the older gentleman standing very close to him.

“(I’m sorry),” Elio quickly takes a side step, saying in fluent French, “(let me get out of your way).”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no––,” the older man in a ten thousand dollar suit says to him, “(for a handsome man such as yourself, I should be the one giving you space),” he dips his head a little, “but,” and he raises his index finger elegantly to Elio before he waves his hand to one of the staff and gives her some instruction in a rapid French.

“But–, sir, I– I–,” Elio stammers.

“(I am very glad that you can speak my language so well),” the older man smiles with his eyes, “Gilles, Gilles DeLauer.”

Elio blinks rapidly and his throat waves vertically.

“Ahh––, yes, you’ve heard of me,” Mr. DeLauer says in thick French accent. Once he sees his staff brings out the royal jewel that was famously known to be worn by one of the French Kings, he simple says, “turn,” to Elio.

“Sir, I– I can’t.”

“No, I insist,” Mr DeLauer is smiling but he has a look of ‘if you dare to defy me–.’

“Oh, Mr. DeLauer,” a familiar booming voice greets, “it’s an honor to finally make your acquaintance.”

And Mr. DeLauer ‘ahh–’s again and tells Oliver to talk some sense into Elio.

“Elio, this is Mr. DeLauer,” Oliver introduces him, “Mr. DeLauer, Elio Perlman.”

“Pleasure,” Mr. DeLauer says in a ‘now that’s out of the way’ and simply continues, “turn.”

Oliver assures Elio whispering to him that it is perfectly fine and that he will be doing it a great service (for PR) to other _guests_ for DeLauers. Mr. DeLauer places the piece around his neck and the ring on Elio's pinky.

“(Perfect fit!),” Mr. DeLauer says with joyful exuberance and informs his staff two peices will be worn by Elio throughout this evening. Once he is done, he turns to Oliver and mulls the thought; picking out what would look good on Oliver in his head, it appears. 

“No, no,” Oliver waves his hands with a genuine yet humble smile, “I think this royal jewel set piece needs some spot light.”

Mr. DeLauer dips his head in acknowledgement and takes a champagne flute from Oliver’s extended hand. And he leans in and Oliver goes ‘oh’ before he lowers his upper body to Mr. DeLauer. Elio doesn’t catch what he says to Oliver but he clearly sees the change in color on Oliver’s cheek once Mr. DeLauer is done.

.

Oliver leads Elio to their table and Oliver introduces Elio to everyone.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Warner,” Elio says, as his hand is shaken lightly in Philip’s hand.

“Please, Philip,” he grins in a typical proud dad smile, and turns his face to Oliver, “so, Oliver, is he? Or isn’t he?”

“Philip,” Oliver’s eyes widen.

“Well,” Philip turns to Elio with his smile still on his face, “I understand you've been an inspiration to Oliver in more ways than one,” and he flips Elio’s hand over in his grip and places his other hand on the back of Elio’s hand.

“And I must say, you look rather inspired yourself.”

“Sir?”

“No, papa,” Vimini leans in, “the evening didn’t even start yet. Hi, I don’t believe we are formally introduced,” and she offers her hand to Elio.

“There isn't a diamond in the room that sparkles like a man in love,” Philip remarks.

Oliver blinks as Elio’s breath hitches under his breath. It is hard to tell whether it is because of Elio is surprised to see Vimini here or it is because of what Philip just said.

“Please excuse my dad,” Vimini hooks her arm on Philip’s and that makes Philip to let go of Elio’s hand, “he still needs to be reminded of his social etiquette.”

Vimini tells Philip that she is parched and she’d like something from the bar. When Philip tells Oliver to get something for all three of them, Vimini goes;

“No, papa, your baby girl would _really_ like to have something only her papa knows of what his daughter likes best.”

Philip smiles wide, a closed lipped one, and tosses a soft ‘of course’ before he excuses himself to the other side of the museum. Oliver thanks Vimini and Vimini tells Oliver to go and work the room.

“Okay, you’re the best,” replies Oliver and gives Vimini a light peck on her cheek before he tells Elio something in his ear. Elio mouths ‘okay’ and Oliver kisses him on Elio’s lips. Oliver playfully nibbles the top lip and it makes Elio chuff. 

Once Oliver leaves the tabled area, Vimini smiles at Elio, first.

“We’ve known each other since I was in K-12. He taught me how to speak Italian.”

“So you guys are close.”

“He is like a big brother I wish I had and never have,” Vimini states.

“That’s uh…,” Elio begins, “that’s quite a loaded statement.”

“I love him to death. He’s basically family but–.”

Elio softly ah–s.

Vimini leans to her side little towards Elio, “and, no, he doesn’t know we've already met.”

Elio’s eyes widen, “ehrr–, how much did he tell you?”

“No, please don’t worry,” Vimini chuckles with her eyes smiling fully, “Oliver is not that type of a guy. I bet his team doesn’t know much about you, either.”

“But, you know,” Elio states, tucking in his chin a little.

Vimini fills her lungs through her nose, “yes,” and she exhales audibly, “from the looks of it, you also have decided _not_ to.”

Elio’s head looks up at Vimini in shock, “…how?”

_How did you know?_

The corner of Vimini’s lips tips up just a little bit more. Elio understands what she means. His eyes drop as he ponders his thought. His fingers fidget as his jaw muscles bulge a little. Then, Elio’s mouth falls open to say something but he hesitates a bit more. Vimini too doesn’t say anything but gives Elio some time and space.

“I–,” Elio begins, “I haven’t told my boss but... I’m not gonna submit my final piece.”

Vimini hums.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –[Man In Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXPe72ewgYk): the song Elio is playing at the bar on Saturday that made Marzia realize Elio is in love with Oliver  
> –Borrowed in book-verse and decided to stick with the original screenplay for D-day. *defeated shoulders* I know... I need to stop messing with it. *long sigh*  
> .  
> As always, \thank you/ for reading, your time and interest.  
> Do please stay healthy and safe: mind, body, and soul. :)


	13. Sunday (D-day)_Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of D-day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...... *fidgeting nervously* I know… I’m following the original motion picture with the same title but… do please know I’m not trying to make you upset… . Have mercy~~ 

**Chapter 13. Sunday (D-day)_Part Two**

“Was any of it real?”

.

**3rd person POV**

No wonder why DeLauers has become one of the most powerful diamond company in the world. Gilles DeLauer’s unyielding insistence on having Elio wear the rare royal collection for this evening, indeed, turns out to be a big hit. Only a couple of inches short of six feet, long and slender form of Elio accentuates the jewelry so well. Oliver cannot help but to feel proud and possessive of Elio. Contradicting emotions he didn’t know he could feel all at once—as Elio’s presence not only increases the chance of him landing the pitch but also a strange sense of being a triumphant victor of having brought him here. While feeling his non-existent heckles being raised at the back of his neck each time some high-and-flute-y members of the super-rich hovers around Elio is inexplicably crazy notion to him. Oliver huffs softly through his nose and decides to excuse himself from other possible clients to be by Elio's side. As he approaches the gorgeous form of Elio’s lightly hunched upper back;

“As I live and breathe,” a man gasps as if he just found something extraordinary, “you are _the_ Elio Perlman!”

Elio chuckles under his breath, ducking head a little, “I… uh… I don’t know about that, sir.”

“It’s a fate, Mister Perlman,” the guy states, quickly rummaging through his inner pocket all flabbergasted, “here, you _must_ contact me.”

“A fate?” Oliver leans his head in, placing his open palm at the small of Elio’s back.

Elio turns his head and his lips brush Oliver’s cheek. They feel a tad drier than usual but Oliver immediately gets to the light puckering of those plump lips against his skin before Elio turns his head back around.

“Yes, no other words can ever describe it!” the guy now has two flushed cheeks, “you must be his sweetheart. Hello, I’m Charles. Everyone calls me Charlie.”

Elio fills Oliver in of what this Charlie guy does: the dean of student affairs in Juilliard. That’s when Oliver’s guarded expression dissolves. Elio does his best to subdue his laughs as Oliver clears his throat, straightening himself now finally showing a proper manner to Charlie. And Charlie goes on and on of how long he has been a fan of Elio and says he was devastated to find out he wasn’t pursuing the career of being a concert pianist.

“Well, he still plays,” Oliver chimes in, rather proudly. 

Charlie brightens up, “you must come and hold a session. Better yet, why don’t I talk to the college dean, hmm?”

Oliver senses Elio’s discomfort and suavely goes, “oh, please excuse us, I can’t miss this song,” and pulls Elio away from Charlie.

“Seal?” Elio mocks under his breath, “it’s a prom song.”

“And who is the classical music genius?”

Elio elbows Oliver on his side and Oliver only grins wider, swivels Elio elegantly over to the dance floor.

“You are serious.”

“Yes, I am,” replies Oliver leading him to almost the middle of the crowd.

“Corny much?”

“Oh, you love it”

To that, Elio gently shakes his head with a smile.

Their interlaced hands on Oliver’s chest, as Elio’s right hand on Oliver’s lower jaw, two sway slow. Oliver fills his lungs.

“So, care to tell me why you inscribed the way you did?”

“mhm?”

“The book,” Oliver clarifies.

“Oh,” Elio chuckles softly first, “is that the reason why you brought me here?”

Oliver lets out a subdued sigh, “I noticed the book this afternoon, remember?”

“Yeah,” Elio replies quietly, “you told me so right before we walked in here.”

“So––,” Oliver coaxes gently, in his low rumble voice, “why ‘in silence’?”

._._._.  
He never expected to find a copy of that book of all places: in Staten Island. An old edition of hardbound book that holds the poem about love and life by the poet he once met at the book store in B when Elio was seventeen. Naturally, Elio scribbled a note in front and felt it was only right to gift it to Oliver. _For You In Silence_ , he wrote inside after a phrase in German.   
._._._. 

Elio parts his mouth, his eyes on Oliver's, but ends up huffing out a couple of exhales with a tight lipped smile.

“…Am I ruining the moment?”

Elio bobs his head to the left and to the right minutely and Oliver mouths ‘okay’ inaudibly, getting what Elio is saying without words as he decides not to press any further.

“Well,” Oliver begins after filling his lungs in a long audible breath, “I was thinking.”

“…yeah–?” answers Elio tenderly.

Oliver leans down and nuzzles his cheek on Elio’s and whispers into his ear, his breath ghosting over Elio’s ear shell, “why don’t we skip dinner and get out of here?”

.

In the meantime, Thayer and Tony peruse around the banquet area with two tiny dishes on their hands while talking about how good looking Elio is.

“Isn’t he?” Chiara leans in between them from a step behind.

“Oh~!” Thayer and Tony jump at the same time, “hello, Missus–.”

“How many times do I need to remind you two gentlemen to call me ‘Chiara’?”

Thayer and Tony’s face expression change with the most awkward one.

“Or ‘chief’ would do,” Chiara says so proudly, “anywho, he is our resident how-to guy.”

Tony almost chokes on cocktail shrimp. Chiara asks, ‘you alright?’ and grabs a champagne flute from the silver plate.

“ _He_ works for Composure?” Thayer asks, almost stuttering.

“Yes, he has been. You’ve heard of Leon Kirsher.”

“Elio is Leon Kirsher?”

“Uh-huh,” Chiara replies with an air of how deft can Thayer and Tony be, “oh, boys, come on, you must be familiar with our policy. Journalistic leeway. We stopped using real name of our writers’ ages ago. I thought you guys knew. Miss little Warner being back in the states and all.”

It’s Thayer’s turn to choke on his coke-n-rum, “Vimini is back?”

“Yes, she has been shadowing me and one of our art departments for a week now.”

.

After the dance, Oliver presses his lips on Elio’s forehead. Elio says something to Oliver and Oliver gives him a teeth-wide smile. Vimini is standing across from the room leans lightly to her right and whispers, “(he won),” to her father. And Phillip just hums with a soft smile.

.

One thing led to another, Elio is now sitting at the opulent glossy white grand piano. It seems Charlie spread the word of _the_ Elio Perlman’s presence in this social gathering(?). He and the musicians play a song after a song as if they rehearsed them beforehand. Mr. DeLauer walks up to Oliver and gestures him to lean down. And as he whispers something in his ears, Oliver’s eyes widen before his face is filled with overjoy. Two separate and Oliver says, ‘congratulations, Mister DeLauer,’ as the French man pets Oliver on his back before he walks away.

At that moment, the white tuxedoed band members and Elio finish the rag-time rendition and get a huge round of applause. Elio gets up off the bench and immediately is swarmed by folks. Oliver tries to walk toward him with the happiest look on his face.

Thayer and Tony, with a serious and somewhat of a glum look, find their way among the crowd and get to Elio first.

“Hi, remember us?” Thayer begins.

Tony reintroduces them again, ‘this is Thayer. I’m Tony. We’ve met about an hour ago over there,’ as if they are such a hurry. Elio huffs out an exhale with an awkward smile as Thayer and Tony surround him.

“You know, uh,” Thayer says nervously with an urgency, “Warren is going to come over here in a minute, and it would–.”

Tony cuts in “it would be so great if you could just, you know, like, act like you don't know anything about the bet.”

“I mean, we just found out about the bet ourselves,” Thayer blabbers with a tense grin, “like two minutes ago.”

“Yeah, yeah, I mean, if-if you could tell him that you-you really, truly love Oliver, you know, and you weren't just, you know, pretending–.”

“So he would... he would win, hell, _we_ would win,” Thayer continues Tony’s words seamlessly.

“I don’t know if you know but DeLauers account is a huge-huge deal for us.”

Tony repeats the word ‘huge’ again.

.

“He is such a gent, isn’t he?” Chiara offers Oliver a tiny plate of something cheesecake looking tiny square.

“Chief,” Oliver acknowledges her with a nod, pushing his left shoulder about to say, ‘no, thank you and excuse me’ jumbled in one.

“I just spoke to your team, Thayer and Tony. And I’ve heard the most ridiculous thing from them.”

Oliver blinks his eyes, cocking his head a little.

.

**A few minutes later**

“No, no, no, no, no. Hold on, Elio Perlman,” Oliver catches up with Elio as he pushes the giant glass door of the museum entrance, “you can’t just sneak away like this! You used me.”

“Oh, I used you?” Elio almost spat those words, “you told people you could make anyone fall in love with you, and I was exhibit A. Yeah, I used you.”

A gentleman suited with everything black emerges from behind, following them, projects, “Hold it!”

Oliver finally catches up to Elio and he grabs Elio’s upper arm, “come on, Elio. And you didn’t?”

Elio tries to shrug Oliver’s hand off as he keeps on walking down the steps.

A few of steps behind with a stern frown on his face, the gentleman with earpiece and a badge that swings maddeningly on his chest bellows again, “Sir, hold it!”

Elio manages to break Oliver’s hold on his arm, “how does that even compare? The whole evening was about you parading me around like I'm some prize you won at war. You used me to get ahead in your work.”

“You drove me half insane for a goddamn magazine article. Insane! For an article for people who don’t even really care about how it was written from the first place.”

“Oh, yeah, and I’m the villain here, huh?” Elio now stands face to face with Oliver, “because I drove you half insane. The article I write for the readers who don’t really care for your high and mighty point of view is my job. Unlike you, that’s how I get paid. Unlike you, it wasn’t some bet I played.”

“And why didn’t you tell me you are a writer for _Composure_?”

“I didn’t tell you? Who was the one went with the brilliant assumption? And me not correcting your so called people skill caused all this? Besides, you already got the green light from your boss.”

“That doesn’t justify any of your erratic behaviors,” Oliver sounds as though he is snarling.

“Let’s be honest, if it wasn’t for winning the bet, this,” Elio gestures between them, “would not have started from the first place. Remember? I am supposed to lose the guy?”

“Gentlemen! Guys!! time out!”

Oliver and Elio turn their faces at the same time half-shouting, “What?!” in sync to whom now looks to be the security person.

“Look,” the security begins with calmer voice, “please, just give me the crown piece set. Then you guys can go on and kill each other.”

Elio realizes that he stormed out of the museum with the jewelries on him. So he takes of the pinky ring and carefully unloops the coronation chain off his neck. Once the security walks back up the step, Elio shoves his hands on his suit pants pockets.

Oliver squares his jaws and,

“Was any of it real? Or were you pretending the whole time?” in a low voice with the tone and the very rumble Elio came to love about Oliver.

Suddenly, Elio’s eyebrows knit in the middle and something Oliver did not expect colors Elio’s face. It hits Oliver hard and he instantly knows that he just crossed the line he should not have. _Too late_. Something in Elio shifts and Oliver sees and feels them as well, without any filter. Elio’s nostrils flare, his eyes quivering. Oliver can tell Elio is swallowing his tears. He fills his lungs. It looks difficult for him. Elio’s lips tighten; his eyebrows turn in downward slopes.

“So that's what I was, huh? I was a guinea pig. Somebody you could test your theories on? What were you going to do? Were you vying the right opportunity to lose me in front of your boss?” _What the fuck are you doing? STOP!!_ Oliver chides himself but words have already left him.

“Yeah,” Elio breathes the word like an exhale, resigned “and I was just a guy somebody picked out in a bar for a bet.”

 _Just say you are sorry, Oliver!_ the voice inside his head tells him but his damn mouth goes, “you know what? Big deal. Hell, I'm sure now you can even use this as a little twist in your story. Unexpected plot twist on your theories.”

“Maybe we should bet on it,” Elio retorts back reservedly through his gritted teeth. And he quickly turns around and walks down the last remaining steps wiping his right cheek. He doesn’t want Oliver to see him cry. _You are a grown ass man, Elio. Man up_ , he tells himself.

“You know what?” Oliver bellows at the back of Elio’s head, “you did your job now, Elio. You wanted to lose a guy in ten days. Congratulations. You did it. You just– _lost_ him.”

Elio finishes walking across the street without looking back and mutters under his breath, “no, I didn't, Oliver. Cause you can't lose something you never had.”

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elio's pseud is an amalgam of names from the book-verse.  
> .  
> As always, \Thank You/ for reading, your time and interest.  
> Do please stay healthy and safe: mind, body, and soul. And I _do_ mean this whole heartedly. *head bow*


	14. Aftermath and… us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing makes sense and the POV shift is beyond bunkers *dramatic chibi plop* *ugly loud sob*   
> 

**Chapter 14. Aftermath and… us**

**Vimini**

Did I know how much Oliver would fall for him?

The look on his face when he came back after that kerfuffle was hard to describe. Yet, he didn’t ask whether I knew before I picked him out in the bar. Maybe it will hit him later, I don’t know. Oliver kept his composure throughout the evening. Mister DeLauer mused to us, for the third time, that he already signed a sizable leasing contract on the royal crown set Elio was wearing. Papa was very glad on the fact that Elio played a pivotal role on paving the image of how capable Oliver is as Warner’s executive. Something that he himself did not calculate beforehand. A serendipitous flow of events Papa was thoroughly bemused of; since, according to Mister DeLauer who wouldn't stop fawning over Elio, ‘not only he is well-versed, talented, and painfully good looking’ was his words, and that if he were ten years younger he might snatch him away from Oliver for his own. Pun intended.

Oliver declined so very politely of Papa’s suggestion of taking the company limo. With his undone bow tie hanging in half loop around his open collar, Oliver looked exhausted.

“I’d be remise not to promote you to a senior level,” Papa tossed those words to him, over the moon of how well the ball went, as Oliver and his team didn’t even have to pitch to land the greenlight.Yes, the bet was for a chance to pitch.

Oliver ran his palm over his face and subdued a hard sigh, running fingers through his well-combed mussed hair. A look I am so familiar with: of him. 

“…Oliver–,” I tried to speak to him.

His face muscles moved and formed a sad smile, as if even that much seemed already too much. Oliver just mouthed ‘we’re good. Go on,’ barely audible. And I don’t hear from him until I drop by the warehouse set for commercial shoot.

.

**Oliver**

I don’t know why my feet brought me here. There are plenty of bars in New York. Why this one in particular, I might not never know.

“What can I get you?”

“Scotch,” I said to him, without looking up, and I extend the back of my last two digits to the bartender's direction.

A few moments later, a clear glass tumbler appeared in my view, just clear amber liquid. Good, I was just thinking about forgetting to mention the 'no ice' part. 

“…hey, uh–, is Velvet here tonight?” I asked looking up. And my breath hitched immediately.

“Hi,” the bartender greets me with a lopsided smile. His dark curls longer than that of Elio’s, looking a little damp, his face flushed as if he recently removed the make-up. At the corner of his eyes and at his jaw line, remnants of glitter twinkled in the low light.

“…Hi,” I answered him.

With a soft huff through his nose, he reached out his hand, “Hal.”

My mouth gaped a little, I took his hand and we shook our hands slow. And he went, “it’s still me,” showing me his neatly polished nails before taking his hand back to wipe the crystal liquor glasses.

“Slow tonight?”

“The second wave has come and gone,” Hal replied, “don’t worry, I’m just covering for lunch. I hate waiting at home alone.”

And he told me about Doug working late to finish his fiscal quarterly thing and he desperately is in need of a hot shower after. So the club doesn't have a full backstage, I though to myself. 

“So, what brings you here?” Hal asked me. 

.

**Marzia**

Elio was supposed to call me. But he never did. First I thought Oliver and Elio had such a good evening, they were having steamy hot after party sex. Honeymoon period, I scoffed. And my phone rang.

“Hello?”

/ “Hey, it’s Hal.” /

Velvet was usually the one who’d talk to me. Odd. We are more of long arm friends via Elio: Hal and I.

/ “I can’t reach him. Did he call you?” /

“No, I thought he was with Oliver. What–? did something happen?”

Hal muttered something in French.

.

**Elio**

When I wake up the next morning, I had 27 missed calls. _Merda—._

As soon as I came home last night, I had the surge of energy to type things out. I wanted it out of me. And without proof-reading, I sent the attachment to Chiara. With a note, ‘should you chose to publish, I’d take it as you are accepting my exit from Composure.’

I didn’t care. I already told her that I didn’t want to do this. The whole thing started because of seeming-cordial colleagues of mine snooping around for any pieces of my personal life for office gossip. Bringing Marzia’s personal life in a staff meeting was low. Why didn’t I protest further, then? Would it have made any difference? Did I play with fire thinking I was the fire not a moth? I knew for a very long time that Composure was not the place for serious journalism. Why did I think that I could write about the subjects that are close to my heart? Was it the money and the freedom I have been enjoying here and I became complacent? Why was I fighting it? Then the thought went to every details I might have missed and done wrong during this ridiculous ten-day thing.Would things have turn out differently if I crashed his boy’s night? Why did I see-saw so recklessly thinking I was in control?

I don't know how or when I fell asleep but it wasn't a good ones: bad dreams. 

“Urrrgghhhh–––,” I groan swearing one after another. And it doesn’t make me feel any better.

That’s when my phone tings. A text from Chiara.

/ ‘I LOVE IT! Take a couple of days and I’ll see to it that you get a bonus.’ /

Fuck!

.

**Two weeks later**

Elio walks out of Juilliard building, undoing his shirt buttons, and lets out a big exhale.

“Why didn’t you answer my calls?” the low booming voice ripples at the back of his head.

Elio turns his head.

“I didn’t know New York is this big,” Oliver says with a strange expression on his face: half glad or relieve to see him and half in pain or longing.

Elio squares his jaw, then swiftly turns on the ball of his feet and starts walking to the other direction. Oliver catches up to him without much difficulty and steps in front of Elio.

“Oliver–,” Elio says his name in a tone Oliver cannot quite decipher, turning his head to the side, his eyelids casting low.

“Is this true?”

Elio groans out a subdued sigh through his nose and rolls his head in reluctance, before looking up at what Oliver is indicating as ‘this’ in his hand. Oliver is holding a copy of the email he sent to Chiara. The one Elio attached two separate articles for Chiara to choose from. Of course, two weeks ago that Monday, Chiara chose to go with the '10 days' article. Hence the reason for Elio’s two weeks’ notice gone effective. Chiara wrote him a flattering reference; it’s something she rarely does (as in never) to anyone, of which landed Elio an interview with Juilliard. Chiara as the cheif editor did make sure Elio stays on as her freelance staff. In her mind, Elio had not only built so many connections(?) she can take advantage of while doing his how-to but also played a crucial role on Composure’s annual advertisement quota deal with DeLauers. A keenly calculated cunning business move. It's a game we play, most grown-ups say. And Elio too understood the meaning of such game. 

“…how?” asks Elio with wide eyes, completely shocked.

“Vimini.”

And Elio sighs quietly before he tries again to pass Oliver by. Oliver isn’t having any and steps in front of him again, this time right on square so Elio has no choice to stop trying to wiggle out of this and says firmly,

“Elio Perlman, is this true?” the way Oliver repeats the question stings Elio’s heart too sharply.

Elio dumps his chest in sharp exhale, “Oliver, please–,” and he tries to snake his way by Oliver, for the third time.

“You know how glad I was that we slept together?” Oliver booms out loud.

 _What?? What the fuck is he talking about?_ Elio’s head snaps around-n-up and his eyes land dead on Oliver’s calm blue eyes. Everyone on the street is glancing back at them.

“There you are,” Oliver huffs through his nose with a small smile.

Elio drops his gaze breaking eye contact and sighs audibly, “I’m not interested in your games, Oliver.”

Oliver’s throat waves vertically. He _is really_ glad to see Elio. And Elio can tell as much.

“I uh… I’m still having sessions with Michelle,” Oliver begins.

Elio blinks his eyes, not knowing what to say or how to respond.

“We should have talked and…,” Oliver sighs through his parted mouth, “I should have been honest from the very beginning. Like one of those movies.”

“Conspiring together against the governing authority?” Elio remarks quietly.

“Yeah...,”Oliver chuckles out a couple of laughs under his breath, “something like that.”

They stand in the middle of the street as if the time has paused for only two of them.

“My parents and I have this tradition," Elio says quietly. "During summer whenever heavy rain encased us inside the villa, I’d lie down on their lap while they read me stories.”

Oliver just hums. He is just glad that Elio is not trying to walk away from him.

Being only child, Elio had the luxury of basking in his parents' love and affection till they decided to part ways, Oliver gathers. Why Elio wants to share this part of his youth, Oliver hasn’t a clue. Elio goes on and tells Oliver of the story of a handsome young knight who is madly in love with a princess. In that story, she too is in love with him, though she seems not to be entirely aware of it, and despite the friendship that blossoms between them, or perhaps because of that very friendship, he finds himself so humbled and speechless owing to her forbidding candor that he is entirely unable to bring up the subject of his love.

“One day he asks her point-blank: _is it better to speak or die_?”

Oliver stands there without much reaction. After what seems like an hour, Oliver sucks in a breath and,

“Is that the reason why you inscribed on the book you gave me?”

Somehow even after such a chaotic yet inevitable blow-out between them, Elio is relieved to know Oliver understands him, as if he can see Elio’s mind. The German phrase Elio was led to scribble, feeling stuck between always and never of the inescapable ending that Elio, so too Oliver, plunged himself into, not so long ago. Hurtling towards the predestined disastrous conclusion two people already knew. Whilst, no matter the motives, neither Elio nor Oliver knew and could have known that they couldn’t help but falling in love with one another.

“Parce que c’était lui, parce que c’était moi,” Elio says forlornly. His voice tinged in mist and frayed edges.

Oliver cocks his head minutely.

“Because it was he, because it was me,” Elio clears his throat first and repeats the phrase in English.

Oliver’s eyes quiver, his face stills like a boat dead in the water.

“You never answered my question,” Oliver remarks to him. 

Elio raises his eyebrows.

“I know how I feel. That much is obvious by now. It's something I didn't need sessions with Michelle to know. Or I wouldn’t have spent past two weeks trying to get hold of you like a mad man.”

Elio looks at Oliver with ‘what is what obvious? How?’

Oliver tempers a sigh, “don’t ever say you didn’t know,” and he pulls out a copy of the book Elio gave him. His index trails along the book cover as he opens it delicately and takes out a postcard. And he places it on top of the book. Oliver breathes in quietly before placing his palm on top. With a determined look,

“I _know_ how you feel,” Oliver states clearly yet softly, “the question is–, do you know how _you_ feel?”

Elio chuffs under his breath, ducking his head, “just because I’ve lived here for a while doesn’t mean I’m as repressed as the rest of New York.”

Oliver’s mouth slowly turns into a relaxed grin.

“Then, where are you going?”

“This time I really am a starving musician. I’m late for an interview,” Elio rakes his unruly curls and lifts his shoulders into a shrug while filling his lungs, as if to say ‘I really need to go and you really need to stop stopping me.’

“Yeah, I know. Where you going?”

Elio wonders for a split second _how_ Oliver knows. But he quickly figures it out: Marzia. He lets out an open mouth sigh, this time a bit more relaxed, palming the back of his neck.

“Oliver, I–.”

Before Elio can say another word, Oliver extends his hand with a post card gently slotted between his index and third fingers. Elio blinks: once at the post card, once at Oliver’s face. Oliver tilts his chin just so in a gesture, ‘take it.’ So Elio does. It’s a painting of Monet’s berm. Elio wonders how Oliver was able to get his hands on a vintage copy. They don’t make one like this anymore, Elio thinks to himself.

“It was at the very end of the book,” Oliver explains to him.

What are the odds, Elio lets out a small acknowledging noise as he flips the old post card in his hand. And his hazel eyes go still, glazing over quickly.

> _Cor Cordium; between always and forever_
> 
> _"your" Oliver_

Elio’s head drops, his dark chocolate curls falling over. His shoulders tremble minutely. Oliver carefully closes the distance between them. Blurry eyed, Elio sees Oliver’s dress shoes coming into his view. And Elio's thought trails to a mundane and random stupid statement: Elio missed his stupid shoes. The same dress shoes Oliver wore the day they first met.

“…fuck–,” Elio swears under his breath, “I really am going to miss this interview, aren’t I?” wipes his face with his sleeves, not looking up.

Oliver chuckles and he inches closer to him. And Elio’s forehead lands on Oliver’s chest. Oliver is glad Elio is not pushing him away. He wraps his arms around Elio. One slow fluid motion at a time. Once Oliver has Elio in his embrace, hot tears blot Oliver’s shirt as Elio trembles ever so subtly and soundlessly. It’s as if Elio has been holding his breath for an exhale. Oliver lifts his chin up and has Elio’s head nuzzle closer to him as he tightens his hold over Elio. At that very moment, Oliver is the one breathe out a long and liberating sigh through his softly parted mouth. An exhale for both of them. A sigh of relief that neither of them missed their chance. 

“Awft–, I hate this,” Elio mumbles into Oliver broad warm chest, ‘it’s too sappy and in the middle of street’ not said out loud, finally threading his arms around Oliver waist.

Oliver’s chest rumbles low with soft throaty laughs. With a firm kiss on Elio hair, Oliver goes:

“I love you, Elio Perlman.”

.

| | | FIN | | |

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

[ End Credit Scene ]

The outside looks like a usual New York winter. When the camera pans in, what looks like an after-party at the club comes into view. And everyone’s cheeks are elated with all kind of shade in pink for being well-liquored up. Elio and Oliver are sitting at the corner booth: Elio’s back flushed against Oliver’s chest, with Vimini, Marzia, and of course, Doug.

Velvet walks out toweling her hair, long fake-lashes and make-ups removed, in his black long sleeved t-shirt over a sting-pull waist trainer bottom in 5 inch stiletto booties.

Everyone starts to chant and Velvet waves at them saying he is going home.

“Velvet! Velvet! Velvet!”

One thing leads to another, she is back on stage shaking his head in disbelief.

“One more dance from our superstar! Give it up for the birthday queen!!”

And the music begins and Velvet blushes, covering her face. She mouths, ‘oh, I fucking hate you!’ to DJ. He spins the turn table and restarts the song, again. 

The famous carol song plays from the beginning for the third time and Velvet still tries to get off the stage, saying something to others in drag. Doug whistles loud before putting another forkful of cake into his mouth. Velvet shakes her head as the intro replays once more and she finally gives in. She stands and lifts the heel of her foot and bends her knee lightly. And the DJ mouthes 'alright' and lets go of the round disk. 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------

[ THE END ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> –[Velvet’s dance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1HHCkYBFlg): if you are interested, do kindly watch the first one then skip to 2:42. That’s how I imagine Velvet would dance in rl with her long slender arms and legs. More dainty yet classy, and elegant, still with enough flare.  
> ; oh, yes, the end credit scene is seriously _very very_ self-indulgent slice from me to whoever is willing to let me do whateverduhfuck I want with my drabbles. Hahahaha  
> .  
>  **[Special Thanks to]** : (alphabetical order as the King Arthur’s roundtable style may be a tad too dramatic LOL. This has always been my tradition, and I update this list on each fic, periodically.)  
> 181178ads,  
> A_scandal_in_my_mind_palace,  
> AJ1001,  
> AnneHagen,  
> Annwyn,  
> Aqualiving,  
> artitales,  
> attraversiamo_2019,  
> Beyondthesky,  
> Chrisaki,  
> cowboybaebe,  
> Delvi,  
> ElioOliver4Ever,  
> GayVibeHomo,  
> Glam_PT,  
> holyroach,  
> homagetoescapism,  
> ilovelife19,  
> Kalemnoir,  
> Karinb,  
> Katmreitnour55,  
> Kill_the_director,  
> Kittenpurple,  
> Lokifanfic,  
> Lou_26,  
> lycanus1,  
> MickeyC44,  
> No_Fucks_Given,  
> Nonfanficwriterfan,  
> Prettysadiebird,  
> Ritu,  
> stepintothesun,  
> thepeachfrom1983,  
> Tiani,  
> tianir9,  
> Volmarto,  
> We_vibing,  
> +  
> those who subscribed, bookmarked, and all anon who sent kudos--!  
> .  
> Thank YOU for following along this AU, your patience, time, and interest.  
> Wish you a wonderful weekend~  
> As always, do please stay safe and healthy: mind, body, and soul.  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> .  
> [[why I am not on any social media](https://youtu.be/PmEDAzqswh8)]  
> .  
>  **A Little Something**  
>  ; for those of very very few who'd like to drop a suggestion or have a question about any of my drabbles (i.e. clarification, background, etc.), please click [my AO3 profile page](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leszre/profile) and you will be able to reach me.  
> .  
> | | | a Little-er Announcement | | |  
> [BY-NC-ND 4.0](http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/): (the gist is...) if you wish, feel free to download and/or share my (*kuh hum* very meager) posts noncommercially, as long as you credit/source me, without any changes and/or alterations.  
> .  
> [ How to get to know me ]: ( **ONLY** if you wish) take as much advantage of the comments section, as I came to realize that I value comments more. (Please note this is my opinion and is **not** meant to offer any commentaries towards this wonderful non-commercial organization) :)  
> 


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